


Meteor

by Capsherlocked (Labracadabrador)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Apocafic, Canon Compliant, FYSL Hotter Than Hell Fanwork Exchange, Four Horsemen, Gen, M/M, Season/Series 09 Spoilers, Unhappy Ending, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1855252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Labracadabrador/pseuds/Capsherlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They didn't stop the vaccine. The Croatoan virus spirals out of control as Dean and Sam watch their world crumble to dust around them. Rough days blur into sleepless nights with Satan himself haunting Sam's dreams. They're split up and the Colt is lost, demons battle humans battling zombies battling angels, and a black cloud looms on the horizon. They've always managed to face up to whatever curveballs destiny throws, but some things are too broken to fix.</p><p>(The events leading up to Sam saying yes in the Endverse timeline. For the FYSL Hotter Than Hell fanwork exchange.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meteor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itallstartedwithdefenestration](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itallstartedwithdefenestration/gifts).



> This can either be counted as either gen or slash-through-slash-goggles, so I tagged both. I maintain that the angel-vessel thing doesn't really fit into our puny human categories for relationships.
> 
> You are not advised to read this fic if you're not caught up on the SPN to at least Season 8, since this runs in a parallel timeline and you may not get references/be spoiled.
> 
> Kudos to SamaelMorningstar for the awesome prompt!
> 
> Edited as of 30th March 2015: Minor spelling and grammar fix-ups. Not much has been changed, but since this was written and posted in a month I didn't have the time to proofread as much as I'd wanted. That's fixed now.

**_April, 2009_ **

 

It all starts with a pig.

Specifically, one pig in a market in Veracruz, Mexico: an ill pig, though not that ill, but the mutations that occur in this particular pig spark a trail of snowballing panic and destruction that will eventually end the world.

Though to be fair on the pig, it isn’t at fault - no, it’s hard not to develop a pandemic level disease when you have Pestilence singing nursery rhymes in your ear and lauding you for being the vessel of destruction and the reason why, even since ancient times, pork has been unclean to eat.

And so the swine flu pandemic sweeps the world, jumping borders like they’re nothing, making front pages every day with the dozens and even hundreds of deaths that this particular virus has caused. Nobody stops to question why it’s in the headlines since the death toll isn’t that many, because War has always been adept at the propaganda and fear mongering needed to bend a hysterical public outcry to his will.

So when news breaks of a developed vaccine that will protect from this deadly outbreak, it’s the one thing that half the population wants the very most. Famine has them lining up for hours outside schools, outside hospitals, outside any one of the distribution points that have sprung up to satisfy this crushing demand for safety. Within days millions are vaccinated, all across the world, in rich countries and in poor.

And Death? Death stands by the sidelines, waiting patiently for the job he will soon be busy at, as the time counts down to the instant sixty-six hours have passed from the first doses given.

Sam and Dean, preoccupied with figuring out Gabriel's last message and utterly disinterested in phony pandemic scare stories by tabloids that have nothing whatsoever to do with the supernatural line of work, don’t notice anything amiss until it’s too late.

By then, it’s far too late.

* * *

 

**_August, 2009_ **

 

“Get down!”

Dean ducks as Sam’s knife slices its way expertly over his head and embeds itself in the flesh of the croat shambling up behind him. He darts forward to escape the shower of blood and Sam switches places, already pulling out a second dagger to hack and slash until the damn thing is dead. They’ve universally agreed that Sam should take close quarters combat, his blood giving immunity from the virus, and Dean should hang back with the biggest gun they can find ammo for and slug the things from afar.

They’re somewhere in Wisconsin, or maybe a nearby state, because that’s where they were hunting demons when the world went to pot and they stopped paying attention to road signs. It’s high noon outside, but they’re running about in caves with flashlights strapped to their heads because these tunnels made EMF go haywire and they think there’s a nest of them holed up somewhere close. They’ve managed to clear the neighboring town, slaughtering humanoids left and right until all trace of the infection is wiped out, but more come in night raids when the watchmen aren’t paying attention. This is their attempt to stop those raids. So far, it’s working.

One dead, shot in the head. Two, three, four, five. They just keep coming, and it’s no use keeping a tally, but they do anyways because comparing kill counts is one of the few remaining sources of satisfaction in this new, hellish world.

“Over there, last ones!” Sam points and Dean takes aim, pumping the creatures full of iron as his brother watches his back, knife ready and waiting in case there’s any that they have missed.

And then, finally, the cave falls silent but for the echo of heavy breathing. They’re both straining their ears to hear the sounds of other croats, but it seems like they got them all.

Dean slings the gun back across his shoulders and steps back from the glint of the spreading blood pool, casting his head left and right so that the flashlight beam strikes all sections of the shadows. None of the bodies are moving, and these guys don’t seem to get playing dead.

“We’re done here?” Sam asks.

“Yeah.”

“We should call Cas, then. Let him know we’re both okay.”

So Dean pulls out his phone where he has an angel on speed dial, and finds that even in the sewers he’s getting signal. It’s a good sign that all the supernatural creatures in this area really have kicked the bucket.

It rings once, twice, six times, then flicks over to the answer message.

“Voicemail. Hey, Cas, just wanted you to know we’re safe and sound and the world just got a few croats lighter. I know you’re probably in the middle of something, but call us back when you get this message so we can check you’re okay. Bye.”

“Does Cas even know how to access those?”

Dean shrugs. “Not my problem. Let’s go clean up and restock on ammo.”

It is surprising and at the same time rather disturbing just how many people have been keeping supplies in their basements to prepare for a zombie apocalypse. All those books and movies have done the world a massive service, because when it finally hits that everyone who had dosed up on the vaccine was flipping there are at least five guys in every town handing out weapons and food to the terrified civilian population.

Sam and Dean are assumed to be just another couple of those guys, albeit with some specialist information about how to kill and weaken the things that nobody questions as long as the methods work. With the help of a terrified priest they have managed to bless the lake that feeds the town’s water supply, which seems to help since the people they have on watch report that the croats have slowed down and are showing symptoms of dehydration, no longer moving about in the day. Thank God for sweltering summers.

They’re in an abandoned house they commandeered a few weeks ago, taking turns in the bathroom with a sponge and a bucket of hot water to get off the grime of that day’s hunt, when Dean’s phone chirps merrily. Sam picks up because he’s closest.

“Cas?”

_“Sam? Is Dean-“_

“He’s fine. Where are you?”

_“Asia. A strain has mutated to spread in birds, and my garrison has been assigned to defense of the Singapore strait.”_

Sam sighs in relief, because even if Cas is half the world away he’s still at least on Earth. From what they’ve managed to prise out of the angel through awkward silences and refusals to talk, plus other information sources he is never going to mention to anyone, their planet is still a relatively safe spot even with the zombie outbreak. In the battlefields of Hell lie terrors not even a warrior angel can survive.

Dean comes out the bathroom wrapped in grimy towels, so Sam puts the phone on speaker.

“Cas, that you?”

_“Dean?”_

“Alright, great, I was worried for a minute there. Look, we’re done in this town. Any chance you could... zap us over somewhere else? Somewhere we could be of use?”

_“No. I cannot abandon my post. I shouldn’t even be talking to you right now, not with my orders and so many lives at stake.”_

“Screw your orders, Cas, since when did you follow them anyway?”

_“I... I can’t. Not again, I just can’t. It isn’t worth the risk to disobey. I have to redeem myself if I am to be worthy of the blessing I have been granted.”_

“That’s a load of crap and you know it.”

The call ends with a click and Sam huffs, annoyed.

“Dean, stop it with your spats. We have bigger fish to fry than what Cas is up to right now.”

“Oh, so now you’re telling me to suck up and accept it? What, be grateful? Sam, you know exactly why the angels pulled out the stops on this one and I thought we agreed that this was never happening. No matter what.”

“I know, Dean, and it’s not like I would ever think about it, but... they’re helping. Cas has his Grace back and it’s just what he wanted so, well, leave him be. He’s flown the nest.”

“Just shut up, Sammy. I don’t want to hear this right now.”

Dean stalks off to get dressed and Sam flops out on the tattered old bed because he needs sleep and the sooner he goes the sooner he can wake up.

Dean’s right. The angels may have stepped up to the plate in spectacular fashion, launching determined assaults all over the globe to control and prevent the spread of the Croatoan virus, but there’s no way their motives are anything but pure. They say they reinstated Castiel because all firepower was needed for the battle and he had the makings of a leader, but that wasn’t it either. All they are doing, by trying to mop up the mess they’d been too late to prevent the horsemen from making, is painting themselves as the good guys. Worming their way into, specifically, Dean’s good books.

They could not care less about the humans they say they’re sworn to defend; they just want Michael to have his vessel.

The worst thing is, it’s working. Castiel’s happy with his second chance and Sam can tell how that tears at Dean’s confidence that they’re doing the right thing by holding out while the world ends around them. While the angels battle desperately to stall the inevitable decline of humanity, they give more time for the choice to be made. Because in their eyes this is the only possible way to win.

Sam would never consider saying yes, but with every passing day he starts thinking more and more that Dean should.

“Sammy?” Sam snaps out of his thoughts to see Dean in the doorway with a bottle of Jack Daniels. “Got it for free out the store, since the world’s ending and money don’t matter a thing. You want some?”

“I can’t even begin to describe how bad an idea it is for me to get drunk, Dean. You know that.”

“Come on, we’ve got five hours at least before bedtime and I want a partner to waste away my sorrows with.”

“No! This isn’t some joke or rule I can bend - I cannot go to sleep with alcohol in my system. Not any amount. Just no.”

“We could try getting you blackout drunk. Might work.”

“Dean, sleeping pills didn’t work. Heck, general anesthetic didn’t work, and there is no way I am doing anything to lower my inhibitions when I’ll have Lucifer in my ear. Drop it; go drink yourself silly if you like, but do it alone. I’m turning in early.”

“Woah, woah, hold up.” Dean sets down the bottle. “Early? Why? What happened to the five day long stay-awake-athon you went on two weeks ago? Why are you so keen to go to Nod all of a sudden?”

“Because it’s worse, okay? It’s worse when I stay up; it means I’m weaker when I finally do fall asleep. He’s stronger. And it lasts longer too, and I’m not sure I can last through another night like that one. I figured I should get it over and done with while I’ve got full reserves of willpower. So yeah, I’m going to sleep. Night, Dean.”

Dean sighs. “Night, Sammy. Same as always?”

“Yeah. See you in the morning.”

“See you. We’ve got a horseman to hunt down, so you’d better make sure you make it. Stay strong. Don’t give in.”

Sam slips himself between the blanket and the mattress, hugs the pillow, and shifts into a comfortable position. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Dean can see the very second when the tension slips out of his brother’s face and Sam’s breathing eases to a deeper rhythm. It takes barely a minute; as hunters they have both mastered the art of taking quick rest breaks in any surroundings to summon energy for whatever must be done next. This sleep break, though, will be anything but quick. It will last anywhere between eight and ten hours, and Dean’s hoping for eight, whereupon Sam will shoot up to a sitting position with a scream dying on his lips and then sob into Dean’s shoulder for nearly half an hour after that.

When Sam went without sleep for five days, it lasted sixteen hours and Dean dozed off while waiting for his brother to get back. He awoke to Sam shaking uncontrollably and hugging him, whispering broken apologies in his ear, and from what Dean could piece together it came close. Very close.

Dean brushes the hair out of Sam’s face and contemplates how peaceful his brother looks at times like these. With Satan torturing him in hellfire - Sammy has never once said a word of what goes on during his dreams but Dean has experience enough from his time on the rack - you would think at least some of the distress would filter through to disturbed physical rest. But Sam’s body, at least, is calm and dead to the world (they’ve tested trying to wake him up around the halfway mark but it’s impossible to disrupt this sleep). He looks five years younger, with the carefree demeanor he’d had before Jess had been lost.

It makes Dean’s heart ache, and it only aches worse when he reminds himself that the reason Sam can be like this is that his mind is squirreled away on a different plane of reality, having a one-on-one carving session with the Devil. That only drives home just how unattainable happiness is for his baby brother.

* * *

 

_“Hello, Sam.”_

_Lucifer pats the space on the couch next to him and Sam sits down. If he refuses, as he has done several times before, then Lucifer will get up and take him by the hand to lead him back to the sofa and Sam’s body will blindly obey, stripped momentarily of all agency. He would rather do without such reminders of Lucifer’s total mastery over this dream world, and it’s best not to irritate the being in total control of the environment around you._

_“Lucifer.” He acknowledges the greeting with a curt nod and doesn’t say more - he’s not silent, though he was at first, for he quickly realized that silence is a weakness that hands over all power to the one willing to do the talking. But neither does he ever pretend that there’s anything he wants to say._

_“How was your day? I can sense you’re not hurt, so I assume that the hunt went well.”_

_“Well enough. We think we got all of them, but it will take another day to be sure before we can move on.”_

_“Sounds interesting. Certainly more interesting than mine, though they always are. Tell me everything."_

_“Really? You want to know?” This happens rarely, and the offer is always immediately withdrawn if he declines or refuses to speak, but every second spent describing his exploits is a second not spent on other things so he has learned to accept the chance when it comes up._

_“Of course I do, Sam. I care about everything you do, and since you do not reciprocate the link hearing your stories is the best I can achieve.”_

_So Sam tells him every detail he can dredge up from the depths of his mind about what went on today. He describes the verdant green of the scenery, the hanging dust motes caught by the beam of the flashlight, the glint of the blood pool as it spread outwards. He confesses insecurities and fears that his brother was nearly killed today, and relief that he had been able to notice in time and issue a warning. The only details he leaves out are the ones that could identify their location, like the shape of landmarks, the names of towns, or the writing on road signs._

_He speaks as slowly as possible, pausing after every sentence to run through the next one in his head. It’s partly to edit out any identifying data, but mostly because he’s stalling for every second of time. Lucifer knows this, of course, but he’s willing to pretend as long as Sam doesn’t stretch it out too much._

_It’s over an hour later when Sam finishes - or, at least, it feels like an hour even though he has no watch and no reliable sense of time in this world. He gets to the end of a sentence and finds he has nothing more to tell, and he briefly considers making something up but discards the idea immediately - the Prince of Lies, though he says he will always tell Sam the truth, can spot a lie with ease._

_“...So that’s how my day was.”_

_“You tell it so vividly, Sam; the images are such that I might have been by your side the whole time. You are a talented storyteller.” Praise from a person Sam knew would only speak the truth made pride swell up in him, which frightened him because he shouldn’t care and pride was, after all, a sin._

_“I’m not that talented. There are thousands of writers way better than me, and you’d know that if you’d read them. Humans are just good at telling stories.”_

_“I admit, yes, you are. It comes bundled in with the selfishness and greed, entwined so deep I can’t manage to twist it out to isolation. If I could, I would remake your race in a better form, but that is yet beyond me. Later, maybe. For now, Sam, would you like to learn about my day?”_

_“No.” A soft chuckle from the being next to him. He always gave that answer._

_“But you've told me so much about yours. It wouldn't be fair for me to not return the favor.”_

_Sam doesn't respond apart from turning his head away to bury it in the armrest of the sofa and feeling tears leak into the cloth. This is it. He can’t spin out more time._

_“Ssh, Sam. Don’t cry. I promise you it won’t hurt a bit.” And it doesn't. It never does. When the touch to his forehead comes, two fingers tapping his temple, there is no pain - just a sense of the world falling away as Sam is swept up in a tide of memory._

_He’s in a field, in Nick’s body (which is wrong wrong wrong he needs Sam), talking to a demon about war plans and strategies as the sun shines high overhead. The demon’s eyes are not black nor red nor any other demonic color, but with the vision of an angel he can behold the grotesque spectral form that inhabits the body. Disgusting. Flawed. Murderous._

_The scene shifts, ground bleeding into sky and now he’s not in a vessel at all, not on the human plane of reality but somewhere else, flashes of all wavelengths of light scattering around him as the angels notice who he is and try to flee. Lucifer is beautiful and terrible on the battlefield, a force unstoppable by any but Michael himself, but Michael refuses to fight in anything but vessels as it has been foretold so Lucifer is unmatched in power and skill._

_He’s swooping and darting and shining, a master of flight, slashing open wounds in wings and sending the angels shooting like meteors to the ground: thousands of demons wait below, a hivemind of ants ready to capture and finish them off. Chains criss-cross the hazy air and tortured souls scream from among them. Sulfur crystallizes among clouds and acidifies the air until breathing itself is a torture. But Lucifer does not breathe here, his true form utterly alien to the act with no need for oxygen, and more angels fall from the sky._

_Another shift, this time back to Earth and a form that every sense screams is imperfect and not right, not Sam, watching the sun rise over the arctic ice and the aurora borealis stretch across the heavens. He reaches out with his arm and his mind to freeze the sea once more, bringing a second winter to this land in order to replace so much of what has been lost in the past few years. Cold anger clouds his emotions, and hate for the beings that did this. He always knew they would ruin God’s creation, and he has now lived long enough to see his predictions come true._

_With as much restored as he can restore today, Lucifer jumps again to skim across the glittering waves of an ocean thousands of miles away. Even here, far from land, traces of pollutants hang in the water but the beings here are resilient. They will survive, and they have survived until now. He sends a call in Enochian through the water and hears each creature respond in its own way, reassuring him that they have not yet been lost._

_Not yet. And now that the humans are dying, not ever._

_Through this all Sam strains to maintain some sense of himself, but the experiences of an angel are too powerful and his identity is lost among the sensations. It’s not Lucifer, a separate being, that does these things and thinks these thoughts. It’s him._

_When he told the story of his day, Sam omitted details to protect his location. Lucifer responds in kind, with faces here and there blurred, or names spoken but incomprehensible. It’s these little things that every once in a while, for seconds at a time, allow Sam to remember who he is and give some resistance to the tide of memories. But he achingly knows every motivation for what Lucifer is doing because the thoughts there are wide open to him, and he knows they are nothing but the truth._

_The reasons why the world is ending are a mixture of the purest love and the purest hate, fire and ice, and the entire reason why Lucifer comes to him in dreams isn’t to torture consent out of Sam. It’s to make him understand why._

_Why, by refusing to allow the Devil in, Sam is shouldering the remorse and blame for every terrible act his race has committed. It shatters his confidence in a way no pain or suffering ever could._

_When it stops, ending with the creation of this room to wait for Sam’s arrival, he is clutching Lucifer like a teddy bear and heaving sobs into his shoulder. Lucifer is stroking his hair and whispering comforting words to him._

_He waits, patiently, for Sam to regain some semblance of control. Sam does, after a while, detaching from Lucifer and scampering to the other side of the sofa, hugging only himself and glaring a pathetic glare. Only then does Lucifer ask, and Sam once again says no, so Lucifer sighs and nods as the room falls away and it’s just the two of them against blankness._

_“It’s nearly time for you to wake up, Sam. Your brother is waiting for you.”_

_“Don’t ever say you know what Dean’s doing. You don’t. You can’t find us.”_

_“I think I could, if I wanted to.” Lucifer tilts his head and smiles. “My network has resources that stretch everywhere. If I so chose, I could command them to locate you and you would not stand a chance. But I won’t.”_

_“Because you want me to come to you myself.”_

_“Exactly, Sam. You’re learning. I could capture you by force, but why would that be of use to me? It would be a betrayal of the trust we have together. So I’ll only come for you if you tell me where you are.”_

_Sam shakes his head. “Never.”_

_“We’ll see. Now, it’s time for us to spend yet another day apart.”_

_There’s a wrenching in Sam’s gut, a horrible twisting like something is ripping him apart from the inside. He screams, unable to help it, because his body is trying to tell him that he can’t go back, isn’t meant to go back, that he shouldn’t ever be apart from his angel and damn the consequences. Lucifer waves goodbye sadly and overpowers the feeling, snapping the tentative bond like shattering glass, and the pain of leaving is the worst physical torment of the whole night. He feels the loss as a burning iron poker in his heart and screams, and screams, and screams-_

* * *

 

-And Sam shoots up to a sitting position, a scream dying on his lips, to see the summer sunlight filtering through the room’s window, very early morning, and Dean sitting at the foot of his bed with the bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses.

“Welcome back, Sammy.”

Sam lunges for him, eyes already puffy with tears of remorse and relief, because he will never be able to articulate into words the comfort he gains from having Dean close by. After a night spent in the frozen company of the Devil his brother will always be waiting to welcome him back with open arms, no matter how shattered he is inside. He looks into Dean’s cheery smile and remembers again what he’s fighting for. The selflessness and optimism shown there is enough to restore his faith in humanity for another fifteen hours.

Dean awkwardly pats Sam’s back and then reaches around to pour out the alcohol. “You want some? It’ll be burned off by tonight, don’t worry. Thought you might need it.”

Sam accepts and raises the glass to his lips. His hands are shaking but not too badly, and he notes that the lack of smudges or grime means his brother actually did the washing up for once.

“How long?” He asks.

“Nine and a half hours. Actually,” Dean checks his watch, “Now that I think about it, closer to ten. It was a long one this time.” Sam can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s worried about the length. Usually, the longer the time spent asleep the worse Sam is at the end of it.

“It wasn’t too bad.” And it hadn’t been. Between the hour or so spent stalling at the beginning and the relatively tame flashes of memory, last night had easily made it into Sam’s top ten list of easiest nights since Satan had started walking the earth.

The worst night, by far, was after five days straight of caffeine and sleep deprivation when Lucifer pounced on him as soon as he appeared in the dream room and subjected him to a sixteen hour long run of cherry-picked memories showcasing the worst of what humanity has to offer. He was angry at Sam for staying away so long and neglecting his physical health, and Sam could not muster up the willpower to fight.

It was one after another after another, murderers and rapists and liars and thieves and traitors that Lucifer had smote during those days while venting his frustration. Each one deserving of a horrible, torturous death and each one receiving quick, merciful oblivion. Each one begging for their life, trying to make deals, or drunk on their pride trying to bend the Devil to their will. After each one Lucifer would stop, pull him out of the link into the dreamscape, and ask Sam why he was defending a species that could produce so many monstrous beings when he was so dedicated to hunting monsters. Sam would blink at him numbly, not even sure what to say anymore, so Lucifer’s eyes would flash with anger and again into a memory they’d go.

By the end of it he was broken, all the rational arguments for why he shouldn’t give in torn to pieces by the onslaught, and he was waiting for Lucifer to ask the question so he could say yes, the first word he’d say that night, and end it all. But Lucifer put a hand on Sam’s shoulder, shook his head, _apologized_ , and sent him back without ever doing so.

Three seconds later when he saw Dean, who had sprawled out asleep while waiting for him to get back, he changed his mind and snapped back to reality, horrified in the realization that only the Devil’s good graces had saved him this time.

“Did you get any sleep, Dean?”

“Me? Yeah, I turned in not long after you did. Got a good seven hours of shut-eye before the alarm. So you’re okay, then? How did it go?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Dean has spent years on end strapped to iron chains in Hell - Sam knew all about them, having seen them through Lucifer’s eyes often enough - kept in excruciating agony by Alistair, and it took decades for him to break. What would he think if he knew that, in just a few hours every night, Sam is brought to the brink of giving in by the simple sharing of memories, no torture required? He wouldn’t be disgusted, because Dean could never be disgusted at his little brother, but he’d be disappointed and there’s no way he’d understand. Better to keep up the pretense that the Devil was using blood and hellfire, allowing Sam to maintain his dignity.

“You want more whisky?” Sam has drained the glass, so he nods and lets Dean pour him out another double shot along with his own. They down them together, and the horrors of the night begin to fade from Sam’s mind beneath a haze of morning sunlight, alcohol, and brotherly companionship.

* * *

 

After the allotted half-hour of mucking about and doing fuck all, it’s time to get up, make contact with the makeshift town defenders and let them know that they’ve busted out the nest and will be moving on soon. So they get dressed, pull boots on and are just about to head out the door when Dean’s phone rings.

“Is that Cas?” Sam asks as Dean pulls it out and checks the caller ID.

“Unknown number, it’s not him. Hello?” He hasn’t put it on speaker but Sam can just about make out a guy’s voice on the other end. “Chuck? Man, I’m glad to hear from you.” He motions at Sam to leave for the meeting, and Sam shakes his head as a not-without-you gesture. Dean responds by tapping his watch and mouthing _‘You were asleep longer than I’d thought you would be.’_ It’s a low blow and Sam knows it, but that doesn’t stop the guilt welling up inside him so he heads off, hoping Dean will catch up with him soon rather than leave him to deal with the townspeople alone.

“See, it’s weird, but you called me at about the best possible time. I was thinking about phoning you.”

_“I know, I saw it.”_

“Then you know what I want to ask, right?”

_“Yes. But I want to respect Sam’s privacy, so I’m afraid I can’t tell you much of what goes on.”_

“So why call and then tell me to send Sammy off so we can talk alone?”

_“Because I can tell you a bit, and enough to know that he shouldn’t find out you know. It’s not a physical thing, Dean. Lucifer’s not using pain, or deprivation, or even desire. Sam is ashamed of telling you because he doesn’t think he should be so weak to something he doesn’t see as torture.”_

“But that’s bogus. Why would psychological stuff be any less torture? I’ve seen the effect it has - Lucifer’s upped the heat on this one. He’s worse than Alistair. Heck, even in Hell they appreciated the value of a few good mind games for wearing you down. What’s he doing? Is he making Sam watch while he kills people?” That was a favorite on the rack. Dean had, at different points throughout his stay, been all three of the players.

_“Like what Gabriel did at the Mystery Spot? No, nothing much like that, although in some ways it’s similar. I shouldn’t say anything more. Sorry.”_

“No problem. Where have you been these past few weeks? We tried your phone but it made an ear-piercing screech at us and we thought you’d been kidnapped.”

_“I was kidnapped. Just by Michael’s side rather than Lucifer’s. I’ve been in... quarantine, you might say. They don’t want their prophet catching the virus. I managed to escape for a bit and find a phone booth, but they’ll catch up to me in about half an hour and then probably put me on lockdown. This might be the last time we talk in a while.”_

“Ouch. Do you want us to come to the rescue?”

_“No. I’m not sure where I am and you have more important things to do. That’s the main reason I called. You have to track down Pestilence.”_

“Why?”

_“He’s the one that developed this virus. If you kill him, it might cause a self-destruct throughout the genetic code and wipe out all the zombies.”_

“Might? You’re saying you don’t know? I thought you wrote this stuff!”

_“I didn’t develop the lore as well as I should have, okay? I was too busy typing out the main storyline and now that’s all gone to pot. I wasn’t going to mention this, but I knew how I was going to end it way back when you first found me. It wasn’t that happy an ending for you two, especially for Sam, but in the grand scheme of things not many people died and all the loose ends got wrapped up. It was pretty much the perfect ending.”_

Dean looks out the window, where smashed glass litters the street and haunting graffiti is sprayed on the walls of boarded-up houses. “This is the perfect ending? What, are you mad?”

_“No! See, I never told you how it would end for fear you’d use knowledge of the future to alter the ending to try to save Sam. So I never bothered to tell you about Pestilence, figuring my visions about you fighting him before he released the virus would come true and everything would be fine, because that's how it always worked before. But they didn’t. I - I must have done something wrong. Maybe I was supposed to tell you. But continuity has been broken, and I can’t fix it. We’re not following the original story any more! The plotlines are all screwed up in my head and I can’t see more than a few hours into the future. Beyond that, it’s like a dark cloud hanging over my brain and I know it’s not going to turn out well.”_

“Way to be a shining beacon of optimism, Chuck.” Dead says dryly.

 _“Don’t you see, Dean? It’s different now!"_ Chuck's voice is panicked. _"Before, you died hundreds of times and I just wrote you back because I knew how the story would end and I needed you there. You, Sam, and heck I wrote back in Castiel even though I’d originally planned him to die for good, just because I’d grown to like the guy. Not this time, though. I don’t know the ending, which means you could die for good at any time. You or Sam! It’s like God abandoned us once we stopped following the Supernatural plotline, leaving the world to spiral into the apocalypse. No more protagonist powers. No more happy ending, just a big black The End.”_

“Alright. I have no more time to listen to your tortured artist moping; I have a meeting to be at. So you say we should head for Pestilence, right?”

_“It’s your best shot. I’ll let you know if I see any other plotholes you guys can exploit.”_

“Bye, then.”

_“Good luck.”_

Dean hangs up and runs off after his brother.

At the impromptu meeting in the town library, Sam and Dean are thanked and wished well, but the townspeople have come to the conclusion that they can survive alone now the nest has been taken out. Last night there were no raids, a sign that showed the croats were probably either gone for good from this area or at least diminished enough in number to make taking care of them a breeze.

They’re given a full tank of gas plus some extra 5-gallon containers of the stuff to put in the boot in case they can’t find anywhere else to fill up. Prices have skyrocketed since all international trade and travel was cut off to prevent disease transmission, leaving America cut off from its cheap oil supplies. And where they’re going, heading straight for the thickest area of infection, money itself has lost all value.

People wave at them and cheer as the Impala maneuvers through the crowds, everyone there with smiles on their faces and a belief that maybe things will get better. It warms Sam’s heart to see how humanity is capable of banding together like this in the face of even the direst threats, and how altruism wins out in the worst of circumstances. Lucifer is wrong, and the new found knowledge of that has him giddy all the way out of town.

“What’cha smilin’ about, Sammy?”

“Just thought of a funny joke. Lawyer thing. You wouldn’t get the reference.”

* * *

 

They drive on into the early afternoon, crossing from country to city as they go through Minneapolis. There’s very little traffic and the roads are nice and wide, so crossing through urban areas is quick and easy.

Minneapolis is doing surprisingly well. There are hardly any broken windows or smashed streetlights, the electricity is working, cellphone signal is up here too, and the occasional person hurries down the sidewalk. One of them, upon seeing the car, runs out into the road and forces them to stop.

“Please, you gotta help me!” She begs. She’s a black woman, in her twenties maybe, and she looks scared out of her mind. “My Dad, he took his shotgun and went hunting the sickos but he’s not back and I need help to rescue him!”

Dean starts a little at the wheel because he was just struck with a memory of _“Dad’s on a hunting trip... and he hasn’t been home in a few days.”_ but he retains enough semblance of mind to stick his head out of the window and yell “Christo!”

Her eyes widen, as if she didn’t expect them to do such a thing, and then... for just a second, they flick black. Demon. Trying to lead them into a trap.

She turns and runs. Dean gives chase in the Impala, but she dodges down a side-street that’s too narrow for the car to fit through and by the time they’re out she’s nowhere to be seen.

“We have to go after her.”

“Dean, what, are you nuts?” Dean’s already got the boot open and rock salt shotguns out of their boxes. He’s not listening. “This is a trap, clear as day! We go after her and we die. You know that. Let’s beeline for Pestilence like we agreed we were doing, and not get sidetracked on suicide runs!”

“Sam, we have no clue where Pestilence is hiding. We think he’s hovering in Maine because that’s where the disease is worst but we have no evidence to back that up. That demon knew we were coming, and did the equivalent of rolling out the red carpet for us. That indicates something more than just a demon lair or croat nest. Either it’s our guy Pestilence, Death, or the big L himself.”

“But we have no way to kill them! We already shot Lucifer with the Colt and he’s fine; I’d bet my soul Death doesn’t die from it either. That’s two out of three who would slaughter us as soon as looking at us. Pestilence isn’t going to be in there. I just know it.”

“You’re scared?”

“I’m terrified. Chuck’s not the only one that gets premonitions. I get them too sometimes and right now everything in me is telling me to stay the heck away from this city.”

“Fine.” Dean clicked one of the shotguns back into its box in the boot and started rummaging around. “Have it your way.” He pulled out the Colt instead and tucked it into a pocket.

“Dean, are you-”

“You stay away from here. I’ll go in alone.”

“No! You idiot, Dean. Why are you determined to get yourself blasted to pieces?”

“Because I’m tired of waking up in the mornings and seeing you shivering like all the light’s gone out of you, and worst of all being unable to stop it. Because if there’s the slightest chance that Pestilence is in there we can end this here and now and save the freaking world. If it’s Lucifer, then you’d be walking right into his hands, so I appreciate that you shouldn’t go. But I have to, don’t you see, man?”

He slams the boot shut and takes off running down the street. He’s left Ruby’s knife, the one Sam keeps strapped to him at all times for emergencies, which means...

“Oy, Dean! Why do you have to be such a fucking jerk all the time?” Sam chases after his brother. Bad feeling or no, it’s time to hunt demons.

The demoness is one step ahead of them, lurking and dashing from alley to alley but making sure they can follow. If anything screams how much of a setup this is, it’s that. So it’s surprising when they round yet another corner and realize she’s vanished.

Then they spot the half-uncovered manhole leading down to the sewers.

“Shit.”

After a round of rock-paper-scissors, Dean climbs down first with a flashlight hanging around his neck and Sam follows after one last sweep of the area above. The one promising thing about all this is that sewers are hallmarks of disease, so the chances that it’s Pestilence are growing by the minute.

They chase EMF through the tunnels, following the wisps of activity echoing off the meter to tell them where to go. There’s the ever present trickle of water and the smell is unbelievable, but they ignore both that and the wet slapping of their footsteps. No sight nor sound of the demon, but the stench of sulfur would be completely masked here. It’s a good place for them to hide.

There’s light up ahead. Dean runs into it first and skids to a stop. Sam follows behind and does the exact same thing.

* * *

 

_First thought: this place is huge._

_It’s like a cavern, with a ceiling high above, but the place is lit by sunlight somehow and there is no way the space above them could fit when they’re only at most twenty feet underground. The river of sewage next to them has been transformed to purest water and there is grass underneath their feet. Giant trees of all species dot the area, birds are singing, and not far away there is an old man with a walking stick sitting on a bench and looking at them._

_He waves them over and, like puppets on strings, they obey._

_“Sam, Dean.” He acknowledges them both with a nod of his head. “It is an honour to meet in person.”_

_“You’re... Pestilence?” Dean asks, grip still tight on the Colt._

_“No.”_

_“Death, then.” Sam guesses._

_“Yes.”_

_Dean stows away the guns. They cannot kill Death. It would be something futile._

_“Why are we here? And where is this place?”_

_“Dean, it’s a dreamscape.” Sam has reached down to brush a blade of grass and it flickers under his touch. “We’re inside our own heads.”_

_“Sam speaks the truth. He has grown adept at recognizing them by now. This conversation is taking place in a fraction of a moment as you enter the chamber - when it has ended, you must face the trap the demons have laid for you. Not the most ingenious of traps, but deadly all the same. They intend to kill you, Dean, and capture Sam so they might gain favor by bringing him to Lucifer.”_

_“If you’re not with them, then why are you even here?”_

_“I am here because I choose to be, and do not talk back to me Sam or I will stop your heart where you stand.” Sam gapes, then huffs._

_“Like that would work. Lucifer would start it again.”_

_“Would he? I feel that faced with me as his enemy he would be quite unable to do so.” Death smiles. It is unsettling to say the least._

_“Aren’t you, you know,” Dean tries to think of a word, “Bound to him? Have to follow his orders?”_

_“I was, yes. But the world has taken a direction not meant to be taken, and for an interdimensional being such as myself the rules of reality no longer apply. I no longer answer to Lucifer, and he holds no sway over me.”_

_“So why are you here?”_

_“Such insolence from one so young. This meeting does not concern you, Sam; it was only Dean I called here and only Dean I wish to talk with.”_

_“Whatever you have to say to me, you can say it in front of Sammy.”_

_“Very well. Sam’s fate is inevitable and hearing this will make no difference. Dean, you are the reason that reality has turned. It is destiny that your world should end so that another world might survive, and your task to save that world.”_

_“I have no clue what you mean.”_

_Death sighs. “You will in time. Five years. I shepherd wayward souls from here to the afterlife, but it works just as well between different versions of this same reality. I do not know the purpose behind God’s orders on this, but he always did have a flair for the dramatic and a weakness for telling stories. Zachariah, meanwhile, knows not what he meddles with.”_

_“Zachariah? But he's dead.” Dean has no idea which direction the conversation is headed in; it is plain on his face. Sam remains silent._

_“And I am Death. But the purpose of my meeting is to apologize. You are God’s chosen, Dean, and your brother is chosen also. The world should be saved by you, but due to a whim of fate this will not be the case. This time, it will end.”_

_“No.”_

_“I am afraid it must. Goodbye, Dean. Farewell, Sam.”_

_“No!”_

_The dreamscape dissolves around them._

* * *

 

 

Suddenly it’s croats everywhere - scuttling across the floor, dropping from the ceiling, backed up by Acheri and red and black-eyed demons. They’re split up almost immediately. Sam loses sight of his brother as he spins around, slashing and hacking with Ruby’s knife in his hand, shrugging off the shotgun from his shoulders because he has no time to load it and it restricts movement. The whirl and twist of the fight is something he’s addicted to more than anything, and he feels a fierce joy well up inside of his heart.

They’re not going for the kill. They’re not even attempting to harm, just capture and restrain, because woe betide the creature that finds itself on the end of Lucifer’s wrath after hurting his vessel. With that in mind, it’s easy. They drop like flies and Sam laughs in exhilaration.

Then he hears Dean’s scream, loud and painful and cut off short. Now he’s felling the demons with a purpose and they’re retreating back into the tunnels they came from, one objective achieved and the other dismissed as a lost cause. Within seconds the cavern - though it’s not a cavern so much as an intersection with another sewage pipe and Sam is hit with the horrible irony that they’re at a crossroads - is empty but for him and his brother.

Dean groans and Sam falls to his knees beside him.

“Where are you hurt?”

“Just... my arm. It got my... artery.” Blood is gushing out of the wound, more blood than it’s possible to staunch and his brother needs medical attention fast. There’s no signal in this godforsaken place (the one time they needed it). “I guess this is... goodbye.”

“We’ll get you to a hospital, Dean. Don’t worry.” Never mind that the hospitals are overloaded and overworked trying to treat victims of the virus. Never mind that health insurance is a thing of the past.

“Won’t... work. Its blood got... in me. I’m a croat... now.”

“I’ll get Cas.”

“He can’t... heal it. I asked him before.”

“Okay. Okay. Just stay calm, I’ll think of something.”

“It’s useless, Sammy.”

“How did it get you?” Sam asks, because keeping his brother talking is the main priority right now.

“Only had... the Colt. No knife. Was trying... to conserve bullets.” Fuck! How could he have been so stupid? The Colt is lying on the ground right by them and Sam wants nothing more than to kick it into the sewer. So he does. It isn’t like anything matters anymore. It clatters and splashes into the filthy water and sinks out of sight.

“Dean, bullets are replaceable. You’re not. So you have to just keep breathing, okay?” Dean’s eyelids are slipping closed and he’s not answering.

There’s only one person that can control the Croatoan virus, and luckily Sam’s got a direct line to his boss. He knows what it’ll probably cost him, but he doesn’t care. So he heaves up the shotgun from its place not too far away, and uses its weight to smash a good few ribs. Pain blossoms in his chest and he maybe just punctured a lung. Oh well.

“Sammy?” Dean has heard the thumps and is trying to reach out a hand to him. Sam wishes he could move closer, to comfort his brother, but he can barely breathe right now. So instead he spits out:

“This is Sam, at a sewer crossroads in Minneapolis, and I want Dean up and about and good as new. Hear me, Lucifer? I’m telling you where I am.”

“Don’t-”

“Shut up, Dean. Save your strength. If you die before he gets here this is for nothing.”

“But-”

“This is not a yes. He’s got me day and night now, but I’ll hold out as long as I can. You have to find a way to stop this, all of this, before he breaks me. Do that and it’ll go right back to normal.”

“No...”

“No what? No I shouldn’t do this? You sold your soul for me, Dean. The least I can do in return is give Satan my location data.” Sam shuts right up as a ringing fills the pipes and the very air seems to take on a glowing hum. “Oh god, he’s singing. He’s actually-”

That’s all Sam gets out before a burning flash lights the area, ice shooting through Dean’s veins as his blood restores itself and he is healed, all traces of infection chased away by a presence so powerful his breath catches in awe.

When he can see again, the spots fading from his eyes, Sam isn’t there. There are no wounds underneath his ripped and tattered clothes, and while Ruby’s knife lies on the ground a few feet away, the Colt is nowhere to be seen.

Dean gathers up all the equipment he can, bites back a sudden and unexpected bout of tears, and sets off along a tunnel at random to find the nearest manhole.

* * *

 

It’s like being hit by a speeding train on a winter’s night. The headlights dazzle and the bitter wind rips a chill into your skin, and the crushing sense of pressure, of acceleration, is almost painful. Almost. But then you’re flying along at speeds you wouldn’t think it possible to attain, scenery nothing but a dark blur against the bright white that’s carrying you along.

Lucifer sets him down mere seconds later on a sofa in a room that’s achingly familiar, the tatty grey cushions softer and more fibrous than they could ever be in the dreamscape.

“I have matters to settle. Your call interrupted a very important meeting, Sam, so I will finish it quickly and attend to you as soon as I can.”

Then he’s gone in another dazzling flash and Sam is alone. His ribs are healed, the sigils likely once again intact so that other angels cannot rescue him.

He makes use of the time to explore the room, because he never had a chance to before. There’s one door and no windows, but the door is unlocked when he tries it and it leads into a carpeted hallway. The clock on the wall is in the shape of a star, but it’s not showing the correct time. It’s two hours behind.

Sam isn’t delusional enough to think Lucifer will have left him a means of escape, but he darts down the hallway in search of a window he might be able to break. It splits off in three directions: to his right there is a bedroom with a queen-size bed, a television and a computer, what looks like stationery supplies, a door to a bathroom, and another wrong-time clock on the wall.

Straight ahead is a kitchen, and there’s a spiral staircase off to his left. Sam checks the kitchen first to find it stocked with all manner of food from fresh produce to tinned goods with expiry dates twenty years into the future.

Wherever he is, Sam gets the sense that he may be here for a very long time.

The steps on the staircase are steeper than what he’s used to, and Sam’s calves are burning by the time he gets to the top. It’s night-time outside. The stairs lead out into a glass bubble maybe half the size of the dreamscape room, set into the landscape of a dusty desert that stretches off into the darkness in all directions. There’s a deckchair here, for sunning yourself or sitting to watch the stars.

The clocks in the rooms below - most of the place is underground - aren’t showing a time two hours behind Sam’s timezone. They are ten hours ahead, as evident by the night sky instead of day. That would put this place in... Asia, or Australia. Far away from home.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Lucifer has appeared silently, without the customary brightness or wingbeat, and Sam startles at the voice behind him. He turns to see the Devil gazing up at the stars with a wistful look on his face.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Back in America he’d never really seen this clear a night. “Because there’s no light pollution around here, right?”

“That, and because I scorched this glass with holy fire. Looking through it allows you to see more than what is ordinarily possible. It’s also strengthened against attack, though I’d appreciate you not trying to break it. You might get it dirty or even scratch the surface.”

“How long?”

“How long what?” Lucifer folds his arms disapprovingly. “You must learn to be specific.”

“How long am I going to be held in here?”

“Just until you want to leave.”

“But there’s a catch. There’s always a catch. If I want to leave I have to say yes, don’t I?”

“Of course not. That would defeat this place’s purpose. This is not a prison, Sam, but merely a base. Somewhere safe to leave you unsupervised, and a place for you to sleep. A home to come back to at the end of each day. We’ll be doing a lot of travelling, you and I.”

“So I don’t- I mean, I’m not sure what- you’re not trying to make me say yes?”

“That will come in time. We’re made for each other, and it will inevitably happen. I’ve lived too long to worry much about timescale.”

This side of Lucifer is minutely different from the one who shows up in Sam’s dreams. Before, there was some sense of urgency but now it is all unhurried. Like events have been set in motion automatically, no more action required.

“It won’t. You’re wrong. I’ll never consent.”

“You will. I won’t push the matter since you have already been so capitulating today, but remember that I will no longer let your body age or die. You many not consent anytime soon, but what about in five years? Ten? A hundred? Or even a thousand, when both humans and demons have long since ceased to exist on this earth and everyone you now hold dear to you is nothing but a distant memory lost in your earliest childhood. You’ll say yes, Sam.”

Sam, in that moment, is struck with a sense of the vastness of eternity ahead of him. He can’t even picture what it will be like, decades on end spent considering that final decision as Dean, Bobby, John, all sense of duty and attachment fades from his psyche. Part of him wants to give up now and spare himself any of the trouble. But he promised Dean that he would hold out as long as he could, so that’s what he has to do. After all, there’s still the tiniest sliver of chance that his brother might save him, pull him out and beat the apocalypse, so Sam has to be ready if that chance appears.

Lucifer turns again to watch the wind blow skitters of sand around the outside of the glass. “This used to be a rainforest, you know.”

“The desert?”

“Yes. I remember it; it was quite a unique one with plenty of organisms not found elsewhere. Then the humans came in their crude boats and chopped down all the trees. Much of this place’s life was lost in the ensuing drought.”

“When was this?”

“Thousands of years ago. Your kind have been busy in the past century or so, but never forget that your destruction started long before that.”

Oh. Then they are in Australia. The one continent that the Croatoan virus has, by fluke and careful defense, not yet reached.

“Can I go back down? It’s stuffy up here.” Lucifer waves a hand and a cool breeze washes through the area but none the less Sam starts down the stairs. The stuffiness is a nonexistent excuse to get away, and he hears no footsteps following him so it appears to have worked.

Then he sees Lucifer waiting patiently in the hallway ahead of him. The angel has mastered the art of silence in flight and it makes goosebumps prick up on Sam’s skin to know that he will never again be sure that he is alone.

“You are not comfortable with my presence.” It’s a statement and not a question.

“Yeah, you think?”

“I’ll leave you for now, then. Eat what you want and lay your body to sleep; become acquainted with your surroundings. I will return at sunrise.”

He is gone.

Sam checks out the food store and realizes the extent of what has been left for him. With all manner of these ingredients he could prepare healthy, wholesome meals fit for a king.

So he heats up some water and makes instant noodles, the cheapest and most boring dish he can find, knowing that Lucifer probably won't care about this little act of spite but also knowing that it makes him feel a bit better.

* * *

 

“Cas?”

_“Dean? I’m on duty; why are you-”_

“Lucifer got Sam.”

A sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. _“He consented?”_

“Not yet. Or hopefully not. But Satan’s got him locked down somewhere and is doing his best to finish the job, I’ll bet.”

_“Then there is only one course of action left. You must give yourself to Michael and trust that we are not too late.”_

“No. Not now, not ever. What happened to you, Cas? Six months ago you beat me up for suggesting it, now you’re saying it’s the only thing to do?”

_“I grew up, Dean.”_

“You grew up when you broke away, not when you crawled back to the God Squad.”

_“No. My leaving was a petty adolescent act of rebellion. My returning was the choice that showed I am ready to be an adult.”_

“Listen to yourself! You sound like some wise guy out of a superhero film. Hate to break it to you, but life isn’t like that - this whole reinstatement thing, you know it’s bullshit. They’re doing it to make you feel all special so I’m grateful on your behalf and then I say yes. No other reason.”

_“Then why did you phone me?”_

“You know what, I have no clue. I just wanted someone to vent to but I guess you’re no good for that anymore. The world’s mad, Sam’s in his own personal Hell bubble, and I lost the freaking Colt so all my shots at fixing this thing are down the drain. And you? You’re all bright and snuggly following orders like a good little angel, and you don’t even care.”

 _“That’s not true. I_ -” Dean cuts him off with a mirthless laugh.

“Save it, Cas. Just tell me if you know where Sam is. He broke his ribs and he might still ping on the radar.” He can practically hear the angel frowning, scrunching up his face on the other end of the line to search.

_“No. He is invisible to us. Lucifer must have reformed the spells.”_

“Thought so. Knew it wouldn’t be that easy. Well, bye. Hope to never hear from you again, you traitor.”

 _“Dean, what are you doing_?” There is a warning in Cas’s tone.

“So far I’ve ganked five hundred ninety three zombies. Might be able to push on a thousand before one of them gets me for good this time.”

He ends the call before Cas can respond and, when it starts ringing again seconds after that, throws it on the ground and stomps on it for good measure. The screen cracks but the ringing doesn’t fade. It’s late afternoon, and there are people on the street looking at him like he’s flipped. In a way, Dean thinks, maybe he has.

The Impala starts up with a purr. It’s the only thing he’s got left. So with weapons in the boot and nobody riding shotgun, he drives out of the city and south-west, leaving the Hellhole that is Minneapolis to fade off in the back of his mind.

Save people.

Kill croats.

And... find Bobby.

* * *

 

**_October, 2009_ **

 

It's been somewhere between one and three months. Sam guesses two.

He knows this because he drew lines in marker on the wall of his bedroom to mark the passing of the days, and yesterday he marked the thirty-second. But though he faithfully counted at first his habits had slipped, missing days here and there moving on to forgetting to mark the wall for nearly a week on end.

There is too much else to do for tallying lines to seem like anything more than a tedious chore.

Lucifer had not lied when he explained how this place was not a prison. Sam spends barely ten hours here each day, and eight of those at least are taken up by exhausted sleep after the events of daytime. Apart from that it's mostly food and hygiene, no other time to even relax, because when the sun crests the horizon an angel shows up and another day begins.

They travel the world, able to cross vast distances in fractions of a second, and Sam is awed at just how vast his planet really is. He considers himself well-traveled, having spent most of his childhood either on the road or stuck into an unfamiliar school, but America is only one culture among many and he just begins to realize what else is out there. They start off small, touring Great Britain where everyone speaks English and the most cultural weirdness is only an odd look when he tips someone he probably shouldn't have, but from there it spirals out into Europe and Asia and Africa, languages he can barely make sense of, skipping from one place to another so fast that it is impossible to tell the time of day by sunlight.

Sam quickly learns that when Lucifer said he would take him anywhere, he meant _'anywhere that isn't within ten miles of Dean'_ , but he also meant _'literally anywhere on this planet'_ , and suggested a few places humans held dear in their collective consciousness. So with a hefty sense of _'why not?'_ they fly to Everest and try to climb the thing. Lucifer would have taken them straight to the summit but Sam took exception to that, saying he wanted to do it right. They flash into base camp, the place looking like a frozen ghost town as winter sets in and the Croatoan virus forces would-be adventurers to cancel all travel plans so infection doesn't spread.

He's woefully under-equipped, with pants and a jacket that might be suited for a _light_ dusting of snow. He's wearing trainers rather than boots, and by all means his face should have frozen the moment he sets foot outside.

It doesn't, though. Cold is not a bother when Lucifer is around.

They pass graveyards of equipment and frozen corpses, Sam stopping by the first few to pay silent homage to each one but giving up after the body count becomes too high. The snow is ice, slippery and dangerous, but his scrappy trainers walk on the surface without sinking in the slightest bit. Logically, that shouldn't be possible. Then again, the award for logical impossibility hands down goes to the bridges that form to span the crevasses, made of twisting ropes and woven threads of what has to be rainbow light, yet still managing to hold his weight.

They hit the peak as the sun crests and begins to descend, with all clouds below them and a breathtaking view for miles around. Sam's eyes have adapted well to the glare, leaving him somehow able to see past the brightness to every detail of the mountains beyond.

"Do you like it?" Lucifer asks.

"...It's beautiful. Really. I never thought I'd see this."

Climbing Everest has never been on his bucket list before, but now Sam sees why so many people spend years training and preparing and risking their lives - he remembers the graveyard below - just to stand on the spot he sits at now.

"There are better mountains. This one was scarred and commercialized as soon as it became a symbol of challenge. In truth, for a human to climb this says more about their wealth and connections than about the strength of their will."

"Oh, shut up. You're ruining the view." It lazily crosses his mind that he's just talked back to the Devil, with not a care in the world about potential repercussions, but Lucifer isn't like that. His methods of persuasion are both far more subtle and far more truthful. He wants Sam to understand, to give in willingly with an informed choice.

Sam still resolves that he won't let that happen.

Although...

"You said anywhere, right?"

"Yes. Any place you would like to go." It's still early afternoon here, though it's closing in on evening in the timezone Sam's adjusted to.

"And you're wanting to end the world."

"Not the world, Sam. Humanity. There's a rather important difference."

"Same thing." Sam looks out over the sea of pristine clouds and snow. "My point is that you want it on your own terms. Not someone else stealing the show first. How you like, when you like."

"Yes." Lucifer cannot follow Sam's thought processes, if the slightly confused expression on the archangel's face is anything to be believed.

"Then I know where I want to go. Tomorrow. For now, I'm tired. Can we leave?" It was exhausting to get up here, even with Lucifer by his side. Sam's eyelids are dragging more by each minute, and he suspects that if they stay much longer he may become the first person ever to fall asleep on the summit of Everest.

Then the world shifts around them and he's back on the old grey sofa, watching Lucifer watch him with unearthly shining eyes.

"Do you want to tell me where, so I can prepare the area for our visit?" He asks. Sam shakes his head.

"It's a surprise, and it would probably make things harder. Now can you flap off somewhere so I can get some sleep?"

Before he even finishes the sentence the Devil has vanished, leaving him alone. It's during this time that Lucifer works, commanding forces and doing battle with the Host on the plains of Hell. Sam sleeps through it all, dreamlessly for once, because in giving up his days he has regained control over the night. It's a more than fair trade, though he refuses to acknowledge that.

Sam cooks himself a large meal - he did just climb Mount Everest - and leaves the dirty plates in the kitchen where they will be clean by the time he wakes. Then he changes to nightclothes and heads off to sleep. After all, it will be a big day tomorrow.

The next day, terrorist cells and secret services alike are in uproar. Some divine force has swept through their ranks like an unholy wind, severing their connection with and outright destroying the projects so much money and blood was used to build.

By the time Sam's done, not a single weapon of mass destruction remains intact or usable. It makes him feel a little better about the fact that he was the one that started the end of the world, because he might just have stopped it too.

* * *

 

**_December, 2009_ **

 

It’s the coldest winter on record, and Dean knows it’s not even half-over. Snow coats everything, slowing the croats to pathetic speeds until it’s easy to slaughter dozens without fearing retaliation. But the cold brings new dangers, of frostbite and hypothermia and lack of acceptable shelter and fuel.

They’re holed up at some place named Camp Chitaqua, several hundred of them, people on the run from their homes with no idea how to survive in the world and no social safety net to catch them. Bobby rounded them up into something resembling a cohesive unit while Dean was on the road with Sam, and when Lucifer took his brother Bobby welcomed the help.

It’s a difficult task, taking care of so many civilians, most of whom have never held a rifle and can’t cook on anything but a proper stove. But they manage. They always manage.

After the zombies hit, politics swung rightward fast. Immigration? Outlaw it. Secure the borders to prevent spread of infection. Poor people? Fuck them, they’re probably all infected anyway. Vaccinations? Oh yeah, like that worked so well the last time. Military? Hell yes. No way they can get election polls everywhere when the country’s in this condition, but of the states that say they’re all fit to vote it looks like a good ninety percent are now solid Republican. Things keep up this way and Palin will be president come 2012. If they make it that far.

From the TV channels they somehow still get at the camp, the rest of the world isn’t in much better shape. Global society is showing cracks and fraying at the seams. It’s only a matter of time before shit really hits the fan and the nukes come out – in fact, Dean’s surprised they haven’t already.

It’s also the first year ever that the arctic ice returns to a level indicating full recovery from human impact. Nobody’s quite sure why, and with zombies on the prowl nobody funds a science mission to go check.

* * *

 

**_February, 2010_ **

 

Dean’s phone rings. It’s Cas. He lets it go to voicemail. Cas doesn’t leave a message.

* * *

 

**_June, 2010_ **

 

The Croatoan virus did not uniformly affect the world, as Sam takes note of on his travels.

Hotspots of infection activity are concentrated mostly in eastern Asia and the USA: countries like China and India where poverty and overpopulation spread disease like wildfire, and the birthplace of the vaccine where the virus has a head start. Many of the African countries had not received any shipments of vaccine and so the only infected are travelers fleeing from their homes. Europe, too, with easily coordinated health systems, fares well. Australia has the best outcome, with not a single trace of Croatoan within their borders.

They're under a glistening twilight sky, Sam stretching out over a sheet of ice and Lucifer standing not far away. Above them, a milky band of stars shimmers across the heavens. There is no aurora at the moment, and the sky is dotted by puffy clouds that appear as dark shapes framed by moonlight.

It's the middle of the day, or it would be according to his sleep cycle, but this close to the South Pole days lose most of their meaning. This place is quite far inland, located high on an ice sheet, with very little living in the frigid conditions. There's some algae inside the packed slush, but no penguins around.

"Is there any particular reason you took us here?" Sam asks. Lucifer doesn't really answer apart from sitting down and scratching idly at the hardened snow. "I guess not then."

"There is, actually. But I didn't think you'd like it, so I didn't think to tell you."

"What is it? And don't you dare evade the question." Lucifer raises an eyebrow.

"Of course not. Truth is, I was looking for something." He pats the snow next to him. "Something it turns out is buried in this very spot."

"There's something under the ice?" Sam scrambles over to look, but his eyes can't pick much out. A vague shape, maybe, but it could just as well be his imagination creating something to see. "What?"

"A very special thing. It used to belong to a brother of mine. Not an item you need to worry about, but it's nice to ascertain the location." A tiny flame alights in Lucifer's hand, casting flickering shadows and beginning to melt the very top layer of snow.

"You're getting it out?"

"No, actually. It's quite safe here, and I have no need of this. I possess another one more suited to my hand." The heat from the fire must be stronger than it seems, for the ice is now a puddle of water with a glisteningly smooth surface. It reflects the flame and the moonlight, making the water beneath it seem pitch black. "Can you see it yet?"

"No."

Lucifer mutters something about human sense ranges and snuffs out the fire with a click of fingers. "Now?"

"...Yes."

Something is glowing down there, the faintest something locked three feet or more down in the ice. It has an eerie blue-green shine, but the shape is too distorted to make out what it could be.

"Good. Then let us leave. Where would you like to go?"

Sam does not know where he would like to go; he nearly never does, but he always ends up enjoying whatever Lucifer picks out to do, much to his chagrin. It's usually something less to do with humanity, and more to do with touring the beauty of the natural world. But today he's hungry and a little annoyed that he wasn't the focus of this trip, so he picks a suggestion out of thin air.

"France."

"Any place in particular?" Lucifer doesn't react to the slight absurdity of the request.

"I'm not sure, Paris? I hear they have good food. Or maybe we could visit the Eiffel Tow-" He cuts off because Lucifer has touched his shoulder and that means they no longer have bodies and are flying through space at an impossible speed, and a few seconds later they're standing on the top balcony of a huge iron structure and looking at an evening sunset.

"I still don't understand why humans would think a twisted metal skyscraper gives any kind of aesthetic pleasure at all."

"Of course _you_ wouldn't." Sam is still blinking his eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness after the polar night. "Didn't people see us arrive?"

"Nobody of consequence, and I have already wiped the minds of the few who did."

While in another few years, Europe will deteriorate into badlands as the virus worms its way through the cracks, here and now the city is normal. That's not counting the policemen Sam sees patrolling the streets like tiny action figures far below.

Sam drags Lucifer into the most gourmet restaurant he can find on a quick search of a guidebook, ignoring the price (who cares about money with Satan himself by your side?) or even the need for a reservation (money will get you that too).

He does it partly because the food is good - and it is, it really is - but mostly because he wants Satan to squirm at the posh setting and need to demonstrate table manners when angels don't even eat. It doesn't disappoint.

The look of uncertainty and alarm on Lucifer's face when he awkwardly holds the knife and fork, _and has to ask Sam for help_ , is absolutely worth the fact that everyone at the restaurant seems to believe they're a couple out for a romantic dinner.

* * *

 

**_October, 2010_ **

 

Dean’s phone rings. It’s Cas again. He blocks the number.

* * *

 

**_July, 2011_ **

 

Dean's on a routine supply mission with twelve other campers when croats crash the party - they've got clever, or perhaps it’s just that all the stupid ones are dead. One of them has set a trap and douses them all in blood. They’re all infected. Turns out thirteen really was an unlucky number.

As an act of mercy Dean shoots the ones who ask for it. Their deaths are quick and painless. Then, in the few hours they have left, he takes the ones who don’t want to die as far as possible away from Camp. There he sets them loose in a desolate forest to wander until they flip. Most choose to stay in a circle on the ground, huddled and waiting for the inevitable.

Dean had dodged out of the way of the blood but had been sprayed thirty seconds later by another one of the traps, so he plans to wait until the first croat flips and then shoot himself in the head. It must be timed down to the last second. He’s not going to become a zombie but neither will he abandon his terrified team. Not too late, not too early.

One of them walks up to him. He turns, but they grab his gun. Flipped. Time is ticking. They wrestle for it but the croat is strong - his name used to be Ray Woodlowe, and he used to help out with heavy lifting - and forces it out of Dean’s hands before scampering away.

The circle has dissolved into a pack of hungry mouths all slobbering in his direction. That shouldn’t happen - croats aren’t aggressive towards the infected; it’s one of the warning signs that they got to one of your team. So why are they advancing on him with wild eyes?

Time’s still ticking. At least thirty seconds have to have passed.

That’s when it hits him that he isn’t going to flip. When Lucifer burned out the infection last time, he must have done something to make Dean immune.

...He stumbles back into Camp that evening, scratches all over him, sopping wet from the stream water he used to get off all the blood. Bobby’s the only one he confides in - the rest of the campers are left to imagine the horrific circumstances that reduced their numbers by another dozen.

* * *

 

**_January, 2012_ **

 

Most people have a vague idea of what the Earth looks like, a little map coded in their heads. For all of them, the world is distorted - their home is larger than what it should be, and oceans are small even though two thirds of the planet is covered in them.

Sam has pretty much the most accurate world map as is possible to have stored away in his brain.

The reason for this is that any point on this map is accessible with a word and a wingbeat, so no lands are foreign to him. He has stood on the most remote outcrop of rock of the Isle of Skye, before flying to the bustling, virus-free city of Perth, in the space of under five seconds.

Suddenly, when passports are no longer required for travel, dividing the map along political boundaries is exposed for the ridiculous concept it is. So Sam uses mountains and valleys and rivers and seas, deserts and jungles so deep no civilized nation has touched them. Uncontacted Amazonian tribes have no trace of the virus among their number, and they worship the two strange men as gods descended to earth. Not that far off, really.

They don't go to the places where the infection is rife, though Sam knows they exist: brief flashes of news headlines every few months detail the slow march of doom. Sam prefers not to read about it, and to put the whole thing out of his mind for now. There's not much he can do. Lucifer is happy to accommodate that request, since he doesn't particularly like human settlements in general and when he chooses where to go they avoid both infected and uninfected ones.

It's truly startling just how much _else_ there is to see. They can go weeks or months on end without speaking to anyone but each other, or even seeing another human. Sam had always sort of believed that the entire earth had been colonized and claimed for man, but Lucifer takes great delight in knocking down those hasty assumptions.

Dolphins, for example, are incredibly intelligent and self aware.

They're far out in the Pacific, Sam in the water that's deeper than he can see but clear for twenty fathoms at least, Lucifer standing on the surface like a biblical myth. He's with a school of them; they're flashing about and playing around, slapping the water with their tails and doing flips in the air.

There is no storm and the waves are not choppy but the swell out here is enormous, so much so that predicting how to surface becomes an art form. Sam's wearing a wetsuit and goggles but his nose is beginning to burn from the salt. He doesn't care - not when the dolphins are excitedly showing this new creature the wonders of their undersea world.

Unfortunately, he can't hold his breath for as they can. When they power down into the depths and he hangs onto their fin, his ears throb in pain and he's forced to let go. He's left all alone in the deep dark blue, not sure which way is up and quickly running out of air. He tries to scream but all that comes out is bubbles.

Then Lucifer's next to him, grabbing his arm, and within seconds he's dragged to the surface and washed onto the beach of an island that wasn't there before - he realizes they've teleported again. Sam drags himself up and onto the lighter sand, coughing and spluttering a little, and the angel who crouches near him is already bone dry.

"You see, this is the reason why I don't let you go off on your own, Sam."

"I thought it was... because... you couldn't bear to be... apart from me." Sam says sarcastically. Lucifer smiles.

"That too. Do you want to go home?"

Sam flops on the beach, sun warming his skin, only the barest puffs of cloud in the impossible blue above. It's nice out here.

"No... just let me get my breath back."

This island, like most of the places they visit, will be uninhabited. Untouched by the pollution and destruction of the human race, like all the other places Lucifer chooses to take them. Sam supposes that's why the sky is so blue and the sand, so white.

He hums and drags himself up to a sitting position, wetsuit black and clingy - he's starting to sweat a little in the heat. "Alright. Let's go."

Then they're back in the water, the dolphins swimming around them, the one who had towed Sam under apologizing by waving a flipper and blowing bubble rings. He can tell it's them because they have a rough scar on their belly, where it looks like a fishhook has dragged a line across the wet, rubbery skin.

The sight of such things evokes a deep sadness Sam will never be able to put into words, even if the animal that bears the scar comprehends nothing of its meaning beyond _'Pain. Hurt. Got away.'_

Lucifer refrains from commenting.

* * *

 

**_March, 2012_ **

 

Dean’s cell rings. It’s nobody at Camp, so he doesn’t answer. He blocks them.

* * *

 

 

Castiel has his blade at the ready and is watching the sky when the cellphone he keeps charged and on him at all times, even though he has not received a call in more than three years, rings.

There is only one man who possesses this number.

He picks up. “Dean.”

 _“Actually, no. It’s Chuck. Dean’s not picking up and he blocked me.”_ The prophet of the Lord. Why has he called?

“I do not understand how you are able to reach me.”

_“Visions. Perks. Though it gives me a killer headache trying to focus enough to read things in them. But that’s not the point, Castiel. I escaped again.”_

“Then I should locate you, apprehend you and return you to the garrison’s care.”

_“But you won’t.”_

Castiel is silent at that.

_“Look, I need you to do a task for me, or at least to relay a message so that Dean can get started on it.”_

“I... Dean does not answer my calls.”

_“I know he blocked you too. But aren’t you an angel? You can fly so much faster than I can walk, and this is urgent. Important.”_

“No. My superior will be arriving soon; I cannot converse with you any-”

_“You’ve got an hour. Castiel, what I’m about to tell you could save everyone, okay? I found a loophole. There’s a way to kill Lucifer.”_

“There... no, there can’t be.”

_“There is, and I need to get a message to Dean. So are you helping or not?”_

“I would be deserting my post. Defying my orders. There would be no third chances.”

 _“Cas...”_ The prophet’s voice has gone tentatively soft. _“I wrote you into my story just as an explanatory device, but you shot through some serious character development. You rebelled, and I get that you hate that, but speaking as the author of the freaking book I knew you did the right thing for the right reasons. Doing it again would be the same.”_

“I know. I... I want to help. Any way I can. I have spent too long as a soldier, and I know I should have questioned some of my orders.” Castiel takes in a deep breath. “What do you need me to do?”

_“We need to find out what happened to the blade of the archangel Gabriel.”_

* * *

 

Castiel clips against wards in midair that yank on his wings and send him spiraling helplessly to a crash landing on the boot of a junkyard car. The impact echoes through the area as he stares blankly at the canopy above him. His vessel feels little pain but the tendrils of Grace that normally swirl around him have been pinned to his sides. He is grounded.

He discovers this when, on attempting to launch back into flight, he merely jumps off the car’s roof and hits the ground in an awkward slump.

Three people are running in his direction, shouting at him. One carries a large gun, pointed at Castiel’s head, barking orders to keep his hands visible or he will be shot.

“I mean you no harm.” Castiel stands and shows them he is unarmed. His angel blade is, of course, concealed well enough that it would not be found even on a search. Like the bows of the Cupids it is kept safe in a pocket dimension attached to him.

“How did you get past the border? Answer!”

“I flew.”

“Buddy, you don’t screw with us unless you want your head to explode-”

“Wait, hold up.” One of the men silences his comrades and squints at Castiel. “I know you. You’re that guy in the trenchcoat in the picture Bobby keeps on his wall.”

“Doesn’t stop him being a croat!”

“And if he’s not, and you shoot him, you want to get kicked out of Camp? Heck no. I say we take him to Bobby and let him decide what to do.”

“Yeah, yeah.” The man with the gun flicks it in a motion Castiel interprets as that he is required to follow. “But you make one funny move and my finger might just slip, you got that? VIP or not, I don’t take chances with potential croats."

They are in a forest, the trees filtering dappled sunlight onto the carpet of needles. Castiel thinks that it is a peaceful place though rusted piles of scrap metal and unused cars, abandoned due to lack of fuel, are scattered among the trunks. He follows the men through to the nearest building where he can hear raised voices, though he cannot make out what it is they say.

"-Not an option, the soil round here isn't capable of growing it, and we get plenty supplies in the raids!" Castiel knows the voice. Dean has an added rasp on the edge of his tone that speaks of years spent living rough. "I'm not throwing them into backbreaking labor for no benefit. So no." There is the sound of heavy, stomping footsteps and the door to the cabin is flung open. Dean stops immediately. "Cas?"

"Dean." This life has not been too kind to him. Some of the light has vanished from his eyes.

"Dude, I- wait, why are you guys pointing a gun at him?"

"Uh, we found him inside Camp's borders. He snuck in, and he could be a croat."

"I... Yeah, no. Trust me, guys, Cas ain't infected. I'm not even sure he can be. Harry, take Chris and get back on patrol. Matt, Bobby's on map duty in the planning room, but I want you to go bang on the door and fetch him. Tell him I sent you and it's urgent - actually, no; tell him Cas showed up out of the blue; that should get him wheeling over here fast." The three men hesitate at the orders, obviously unwilling to leave Dean alone with a possible infection risk. "Well? Go!"

They scurry off. Dean turns to Castiel.

"Are you going to drag me off to Michael?"

"No."

"Then why are you here? I thought I made it pretty clear the last time we talked that we're on opposite sides in this thing. I'm not working with the angels, and that means I'm not working with you."

"I left my post. I disobeyed direct orders."

"You rebelled again? Wow." Dean whistles appreciatively. "I'm pretty sure that's a record, Cas. What was it this time?"

"Chuck has contacted me. He believes he has a method that can kill Lucifer."

Dean is serious in an instant. "Spill."

"When Gabriel died, his blade was left behind. As far as it is possible to know, Lucifer has not taken it. Instead it was cast through metaphysical planes to land somewhere, anywhere, on this earth. If this blade can be retrieved, it is the only weapon we have a chance to obtain that Lucifer is weak to."

"Chuck knows this how?"

"He had a vision. He says it was stronger than any he has had since our world diverged from the Supernatural plotline."

"Like that doesn't scream a setup." Dean wipes the sweat from his brow. "He knows the location? Go get it then."

"Not the exact location. From what he was able to navigate from the stars it is somewhere in Antarctica. The wastelands there are vast and it may take a year or more before I am able to find it. I would start immediately, but I wished to inform you and now it seems that I cannot-" Castiel tries, once again, to flex his wings. A breeze whips up around him but they are still bound away. "Cannot fly."

"You can't - oh, right, the wards. We set some up that would pin an angel to the ground so we could fight if they decided to storm Camp. I'll go scrub those out now you're visiting."

"That is not wise. I will not stay long; I can leave from outside of the borders."

There's a call from behind Dean and Castiel follows his spin to see Bobby, bound in a wheelchair, rolling towards them. He is crippled. Castiel can heal him, so he steps forward with two fingers beginning to shimmer slightly as he draws together his Grace.

"Woah, stop! That's no way to greet a guy." Castiel frowns.

"I can restore your freedom of movement. Surely-"

"And who says I want my legs back, huh? I don't need them. That ship has sailed, and I'm adjusted now. Besides, it means I never get the dirty chores like mucking out the toilets and fetching wood. Come here, Cas. It's good to see you."

Bobby smiles into their hug. Castiel is stiller than a statue.

"Now, what stupid plan are you dragging Dean into now? Don't hide it; it's clear on both your faces. And do you have news on Sam?"

It is the wrong thing to say, and Bobby realizes that after a second of Dean's shocked look.

"Sam... has not yet consented. That is all the Host knows, since Lucifer has him locked away under wards we cannot breach. We cannot ascertain his mental state nor the time we have left before destruction becomes inevitable."

"He hasn't? Oh crap." Dean does not meet Castiel's gaze. "I thought - I thought for sure that-"

"If Lucifer wears his true vessel, he can wield energies orders of magnitude greater than what is possible now. The Croatoan virus will be the least of your worries, as the very fabric of reality tears away from itself."

"No, it's not that. I didn't look for him. I ran out of that sewer and I didn't look back because I thought for sure he was a goner. But if Sam's been under the knife all these years, holding out, and I didn't even try... Oh God, what did I do?"

"The angels cannot find Sam. You would have no better chances, Dean."

"Shut up, Cas. Just... shut up, okay?" Castiel is silent. Bobby coughs.

"It seems you two have some work to be doing, but first I want a picture. The team's back together again, and I think that deserves a celebratory photo."

"Bobby, Sam's not here."

"He's with you in spirit, kid. What do you say, Cas? We've got a solar panel here to charge the cameras on. I'll see if Jane will take it for us." He wheels his way around and calls to the others walking about, who jog over immediately to answer their leader.

"I think I... would enjoy that."

Three hours on, Castiel leaves camp with well-wishes lingering in his ears and a slightly damp but nonetheless clean trenchcoat. Before, he had not washed it in nearly four years.

He takes a step over the border, a painted line to mark a boundary for the edges of the ward, and vanishes in a whirl of air.

* * *

 

**_August, 2012_ **

 

Harry Jones was a wonderful man around Camp Chitaqua. He was gay, but nobody cares about such things anymore. He once rescued two toddlers cowering in a town's impromptu nursery and brought them home to Camp, and the action had left him universally beloved among the other residents.

Harry Jones _is_ now a croat. He was infected through the tiniest blood droplet on a splinter that then entered his hand. Nobody expected it to happen, since no live croats were tacked on that supply mission. Dean misses the signs.

So when Harry requests a meeting with Bobby Singer, Camp leader, everyone assumes it's for a good reason until he savagely tears into the arm of someone no longer mobile enough to get away. It's mere seconds before he has a bullet through his brain, but those seconds make the difference between life and death.

Bobby has sixty-six minutes to live.

Dean packs up his stuff, helps him say farewell to everyone at Camp, and drives him at top speed back to Sioux Falls where the Salvage Yard still stands with a sign covered in rust. He phones Cas but it goes to voicemail like it's done the past few months, so Dean hangs up. Then he offers to inject Bobby with a syringe of his blood, blood immune to the virus, in an attempt to slow the course or even reverse the disease. Bobby refuses and tells him to stop being an idiot.

"Bobby, I can't..." Dean doesn't know what to say. "Everyone's dying. Everyone. We're down to under fifty now, and without you..."

"You'll do fine, boy. Everyone knows I've been training you to be leader if something like this happens. How long've I got?"

Dean checks the watch he found new batteries for just eight weeks ago. "Seven minutes. Maybe six."

"Then I want you to make me a promise: you hold out, okay? Keep saying no. I know that look on your face, and I don't like what I'm seein'. Don't you dare let in the angels. Sam's holding out; so do you, you hear? Do it together. Do it for him."

"I will, Bobby. I promise."

"Good." Bobby leans back in his chair and lets his head flop to stare at the ceiling. He closes his eyes and smiles. "And promise me something else. You kill me. Don't set me loose like you did with all those other Campers. I'm not letting myself go darkside just because of your sentimentality. So you take that gun out and you shoot me as soon as I flip, alright?"

"Yeah."

"Nice day to die, though. No clouds. Bit hot, but I guess you can't have it all. Take that picture of us and Cas out, would you? I want to see it one last time."

Dean does. It's a nice photo, but it only makes him more painfully aware of who is missing. He wonders where Sam is now, if he's still capable of thinking of Dean. God knows his brother was his only refuge and shield against the torture in the Pit.

"Now put it in your father's journal. Along with Jo and Ellen's. So I can be close to them when I head off."

Humans go to Heaven. Humans who have made deals, or who have been so exceptionally evil that Heaven refuses them, go to Hell. Monsters go to Purgatory.

Nobody knows where croats go.

Dean gets blood all over him as he picks up Bobby's body to carry it out to the backyard where he has already decided to dig a grave. It doesn't matter - he can't be hurt by the virus. He leaves behind the wheelchair with bullet holes in and fetches a spade.

He's again sopping wet when he gets back to Camp that night - now nobody here knows about his immunity - so the first thing he does is change clothes. The second thing is proclaim loud and clear that he's taking the leadership. No one objects.

He's in the map room when there's a knock on the door, and it's Matt and Chris looking a little scared.

"We found somebody skulking around the border while you were out. He says he knows you from _before_. Knew your name and everything, and said he had to talk urgently."

"Did he say who he was?"

"Some guy named Chuck."

Dean motions for them to bring him in. He's got handcuffs and legcuffs and a gun at his neck - with what happened today, nobody's taking chances. Chuck Shurley looks up at Dean with haunted eyes.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I got here as fast as I could."

"You knew? You _knew_ this would happen? The actual Hell, why didn't you call?"

"You... you blocked my number. The payphones weren't working. I tried Cas, but something stopped it getting through."

Then it's Dean's fault. Chuck couldn't reach him in time because Dean had been an idiot in a quarrel with Cas and now Bobby is dead.

"Shit."

"What do we do with him, boss?" they ask. "Lock him up, cast him out, what?"

"Go back to your duties. We can talk privately."

"But-"

"If he flips, I'm not stupid. I have a gun and I'm faster than him."

They nod and leave. He and Chuck are alone.

Chuck launches into his story. "The angels had me in quarantine for years. Locked up in a little white room with a bed, a toilet, and a sink. Food appeared once a day. I nearly went crazy in there. There was nothing to do. Nobody to talk to."

"How'd you keep sane?"

"You. You and Sam and Cas, all transmitting your stories straight into my head. Kept the psycho bug away from my mind."

"Sam? You know what's happening to him?"

"Sort of. Lucifer makes that channel turn into static, so I can only see when Sam's alone. But he's locked up same as I was, though I guess his accommodation is a little larger. Most of that time he spends sleeping, and he looks like he damn well needs the rest."

"He's holding out."

"Just about, yeah. Even though I see less and less of him each day."

"So how did you escape?"

"I stopped speaking. Stopped doing much of anything, really. My stimulation was all mental, so I lost interest in the physical world - the one the angels can see. I'm a prophet so my mind has protection. I guess they must have thought I was brain dead by the end. So they gave up and zapped me into an alleyway to die."

Dean looks at Chuck more carefully. He's trembling ever so slightly with muscles weakened by years of confinement. So Dean removes the cuffs.

"Sit down."

"But I could be-"

"And you know I'm immune, right? Sit down; you look like you could use a rest break."

Chuck sits. "After that, it was pretty ordinary. I phoned you and Cas; you know what I said. Then I found a car and drove it here. Kept running out of fuel, and I nearly died stealing a tank of gas from a croat infested fill-up point. Saw the vision of Harry, which I thought was weird because I don't get ones of strangers, but then I saw Bobby too. Got here as soon as I could, but it was too late by then. You know the rest." He rubs his wrists. They are sore and painfully thin.

"Is there anything else I should know? Any other visions?"

Chuck shakes his head. "Nothing so far. But this big black cloud I talked about? It's looming. Getting closer every day now. The future is bad, for me, for you, for Cas, for Sam. It scares me."

"You should get some sleep, Chuck." Dean stretches and looks out the window. "I'll have to put you in quarantine for an hour but after that you can have a nice long snooze. Welcome to Camp Chitaqua, I guess. That makes forty eight of us now."

* * *

 

**_September, 2012_ **

 

Sam stops sleeping.

It's not a sudden change, and it's not a rebellion or in response to anything he can tell. He just... no longer needs the hours of rest that he used to, and he guesses that spending so much time in close company of an angel has rubbed off a bit of the power. Ten hours of exhaustion after a long and active day in the sun settles down to about eight, then trickles back further: seven, six, five. At four hours every night he starts getting lonely - Lucifer's not there, off doing business with demons and horsemen, working to end the world. Things he keeps entirely separate in order that Sam not be upset. There's nobody else to talk to.

He's checked, and though he gets internet out here he can't upload anything. He's stuck looking, and none of the social networking sites are anything but gory reports and tragic deaths. Facebook has ceased to exist, as have many others. What's left is more depressing than interesting.

So to pass the time he doodles on the walls of his bedroom. He's getting to be quite the artist, and seeing those thirty two tally marks in permanent marker behind the door makes him smile a little sadly.

Tonight's the night Sam wakes up and checks his alarm clock - two hours spent asleep, the shortest yet, and another six before the crack of dawn and company.

He bites his lip and eyes the cellphone resting innocently on the table. There's only one number it calls, since Lucifer wouldn't let him have a chance at contacting Dean or Bobby or Cas, but it still calls someone. A hotline straight to the Devil. He's pretty sure there used to be a rock song about that, but Dean would be the one to know.

He picks up and fumbles with it for a while, finger hovering over the green button, before he decides to text. Less chance of interrupting something that way, even if Lucifer had stated in no uncertain terms that Sam was far and away his top priority.

_'Can't sleep. Bored.'_

It's probably a miracle, but he gets signal in the middle of the outback. He watches the tiny animation of an envelope flying off screen.

"Sam."

It's behind him. He jumps and turns, but he's heard Nick's voice too many times to not know who it is. Lucifer.

"Uh, hello. I-"

"You couldn't sleep. I know."

"You read the message?" It had to be ten seconds at very most from clicking send to having an angel looking over his shoulder. Damn impressive for someone that spurns human technology.

"Yes. I keep a constant watch on the airwaves. That device transmits coded information at a very specific frequency. I knew its contents as soon as it was sent." Lucifer steps forward, crouches slightly so he's at eye level with Sam's sitting position, and reaches out with one hand to pull his cheek down and expose the whites of his eyes.

Sam would tell him to stop, but angels have very little concept of personal space and when dealing with vessels, even less so.

"I'm not dying, am I?" he asks instead. He tries and thinks he succeeds in keeping the small twinge of hope from his voice.

"It isn't affecting your physical health. How long, Sam?"

"How long what?" Of course Sam knows what, but he's in a mood to make Lucifer drag every bit of information out one at a time.

"How long since you first noticed your sleep disturbed?"

"What makes you think it was any time before tonight?" He counters each question with another question. Lucifer gestures to the phone as if that makes everything clear. "I don't get it."

"I know you too well to be under any delusion you would phone for an acute problem."

"Four months. Since last spring." That was when it had begun to emerge, his hours reducing at first with the nights, but then at the solstice continuing to shorten while morning came later and later.

Lucifer cups his hand around Sam's neck and Nick's skin tingles as if they're both at high voltage, electricity coursing beneath the surface of a body that's wearing thin and will be unable to contain him much longer. A thumb presses down on Sam's voicebox and he swallows on reflex.

"You could have told me earlier. I will always listen to you, Sam." He hums and strokes his hand up to gently scratch behind Sam's right ear. It should be demeaning, but it's not and Sam can't stop himself from leaning into the touch.

There's nobody to watch, nobody to know or judge and it's not like his body isn't Lucifer's already. Only his mind still holds out.

Besides, Nick's voice is softer than his hand and the room is dark. Sam can only concentrate on soft murmurs of Enochian he cannot understand and the feeling of five fingers trailing around his skull as if to map out the contours for future reference, or to test just how far Sam's willing to allow this to go.

He stops Lucifer when that hand strokes over his collarbone, placing his own over it and picking the arm up and off him. He's not sure how long it's been since it started, but it feels like a dream state.

"Do you wish for me to send you to sleep under my own power?" Lucifer asks. Sam replies with a no.

"I want to... I don't know what I want."

"Do you want to travel with me during the nights, then?"

"...Yes."

After that day, Sam doesn't sleep any more.

* * *

 

**_December, 2012_ **

 

Lucifer takes him to meetings now.

Sam stands with the immobility of angel, two steps behind the Devil and one step to the left, keeping pace if they're walking but never speaking. He watches. He listens. He learns.

Some of the things he learns aren't the most savory of facts, but he keeps silent none the less. Mostly, though, it's interesting.

He remembers the time that seems so long ago now when Lucifer showed him this through their mind link, the one they never use any more. Before, details were obscured and experiences were blurry, told through the slight distortion of another's perception. It's not like that now.

Sam is quickly being made privy to every minuscule detail about the battles in Hell and on Earth, to the identities of the demons that answer straight to Lucifer, and to the plans being forged and laid in top secrecy for ways to ensure victory. If he manages to escape, this information alone would be worth a million lives in the resistance. That's the excuse he gives himself for soaking it all in and committing it to memory.

His morbid fascination and curiosity is not helped by the fact that Lucifer seems happy to break off in the middle of a conversation with his top generals in order to clarify a point that Sam may have missed or that referred to something they discussed before he was on the scene. When he does so, the Devil's whole demeanor changes from a deadly foe to helpful explainer, and once he's finished and turns back to the conversation the reverse shift is just as quick.

Most of the demons pretend they don't notice, but the odd one or two allow distinctly put-out impressions to show on their faces - bad for them, because Sam never sees those again and when he asks where they went Lucifer gleefully tells him of their demotion into the ranks of angel-fodder.

One of the demons makes the mistake of calling their leader out on it, interrupting his explanation of the mechanics of an aerial maneuver by asking Sam why a human gets special treatment over the stronger and more loyal demons. Lucifer merely steps forward and places one hand over the meatsuit's forehead, and with an agonized scream the demon burns until all that's left is an empty corpse with melted eyes.

There are no more incidents.

Sam idly wonders, in what used to be his daytime but is now just the half of each twenty four hour period they designate for whatever they want to do, about what Lucifer's personality is like. He seems able to adopt a mask of human emotion with careless ease, but he tailors his demeanor to the people around him. The angels in Hell see a terrifying and artful foe; the demons see a strict and deadly master, and Sam sees a careful and patient companion. He suspects all three are constructs, so he wonders what Lucifer is when nobody else is around.

He caught glimpses of a fiercely independent and determined fighter with a weak spot only for his older brother during the time when their minds joined each night, and believes that probably best approximates the truth.

Lucifer in that form reminds Sam only of himself. He selectively ignores the similarities between him and the Devil and asks instead if he can get lessons on Enochian to occupy his mind.

Of course, Lucifer is happy to provide.

Enochian is primarily a written language: angels in metaphysical form communicate using song rather than speech, and humans or vessels can easily burn their voices to ash if they try to draw on the power inherent in the words. Nick cannot say some of the phrases they go over. Sam can say them all without even the slightest twinge of pain in his throat - it's because his bloodline is far more powerful.

When Lucifer possesses him, they'll be able to use those phrases and others like them to weave spells that no other angel, save Michael in Dean, can match without tipping their vessel into disintegration. Sam stops learning at that point and insists they move onto the glyphs and runes that make up many of the symbols he used to use when hunting.

Then, one night at a crossroads of two dirt tracks on the African Savannah in a meeting with a demon who led his squad on a search and capture mission, the news comes through: they've caught a half-angel, and they've bound her in a ring of holy fire.

* * *

 

**_May, 2013_ **

 

The blade of Gabriel shimmers and shines in the light of reflected Grace as Castiel materializes just outside a building in Detroit. A heavy chill hangs in the air, speaking of the eye of a massive storm. It’s early summer, but the ground is layered with pristine white snow. No footprints. No car tracks.

Underneath the snow is a painted ward, and as soon as he steps across the outer boundary Castiel feels it binding him, trapping him in mortal form. He will not be able to escape without stepping back over the line.

He continues on anyway, feet crunching away to make a trail leading from nowhere to the door of the building. It swings open for him without a prompt.

He is expected.

Castiel enters to see a body lying on its back, lips and skin blue with cold, barely three paces from where he stands. There is a rip in its - in her - shirt and a bloody hole carved into her chest. It appears as though her heart has been ripped from its position inside of her and carried away somewhere else.

There is a trail of blood drops leading away from the body, and the scent of an angel hangs in the air.

He follows the trail of droplets into another room, this one with a spiral staircase, ears and eyes alert for the slightest movement. Wards bind all angels; if Lucifer is truly here , as indicated by the hurricane surrounding this place, he will fight in his vessel.

Whether that vessel is Nick or Sam is unknown at present. Chuck's visions of Sam have cut out to static, so it's a distinct possibility.

There is another body at the top of the stairs, this one naked, and again an angel. A Cupid this time. He lies in a patch of frost, ice binding him to the floor, and a red pool extending from the end of one arm. There is no hand: it has been chopped off at the wrist. The cut was made clean, using machinery no human could have access to.

What is Lucifer attempting to do?

There is a sound just ahead of Castiel; a shifting of clothing or brush of wings on fabric. He leaves the Cupid and hurries on.

Lucifer is waiting for him in a room exposed to the elements. The roof is gone and the floor is dusted with snow, tiny flakes drifting through what would have been the ceiling.

"Castiel." It is Nick who spoke, though Sam is also present, behind Lucifer on his left side. "It's been five years, has it not? You don't seem much to have changed."

Sam folds his arms and doesn't meet Castiel's eyes. Lucifer goes on.

"We know you possess the blade. We were the ones who uncovered it, you know. I knew giving it to you would pull you out of hiding, and you're needed."

"Sam, are you-" Sam cuts Castiel off with a shake of his head.

"Don't, Castiel. Don't." The nickname is gone. "It's too late for me to go."

"This is a touching reunion, but there is business to attend to. First, you didn't actually think-?" Gabriel's sword is ripped from Castiel's hand and flies across the room. Lucifer catches it and inspects it. "Unscratched, as always." Castiel tries to flee, but the door is now locked behind him and his wings are tied down. "A nice sword, but personally too broad."

"Let me go!"

"No. You're special, Castiel; an angel who fell from Heaven and was then forgiven. The expression of mercy. I need you. Have you ever wondered why you were raised from the dead?"

"I do not question God's plan."

"It wasn't God's; it was mine. The power contained in your body was too potent to be allowed to fade. But you have no clue about that, do you?" Lucifer watches the expression on Castiel's face. "Oh, of course. You're too good an angel to ever skulk in my crypts."

Castiel knows he is going to die in this room. Dean is many miles away; Sam is no longer who he used to be. There is no help. Pride is a sin, but if he must die, he will do so with dignity. Fighting.

He launches himself at Lucifer, dodging first right and then the other way, aiming to steal back the one blade that has a chance of slaying the Devil. Lucifer stops him with a blink and a whisper of thought, affixing his feet to the floor with a sheet of ice and chilling his muscles so he cannot move.

"It's no use, Castiel. I'm sorry for you." Lucifer takes the sword, runs his thumb along the flat of the metal, and then presses it gently to Castiel's neck. He feels blood and Grace begin to seep out through the tiny nick of a cut. "You're a pawn on the chessboard; always have been, and always will be. We all are."

He speaks a phrase in Enochian that makes Castiel's ears and teeth sing with reverberated pain, and bright white smoke begins to flow from the wound. It hovers around the two of them before coalescing into a shining mass. Grace.

Castiel has never seen his before, and he wonders if the beauty he feels at looking into his own soul is justified.

Then, inexplicably, Lucifer withdraws the blade and steps back. With not even a glance to the side he holds it out, handle first, in Sam's direction. Sam takes it and cradles it gently in his hands.

"Sa..." Castiel's jaw is locked and he cannot speak, but he hopes his eyes convey the message: a pleading stare to please, please use the sword to stab the devil and end this now, if there is anything left in the body that was once Samuel Winchester.

Sam stares at the blade. Then at Castiel, and finally his eyes move to Lucifer. Something flashes between the two of them, an emotion Castiel cannot identify. Sam stills and slowly shakes his head.

"Castiel..." His voice is tiny and resigned. "We're not going to kill you. Tell Dean he shouldn't worry about me anymore."

He still refuses to meet Castiel's eyes, and Lucifer interrupts Castiel's betrayed half-gasp with more Enochian words. These nearly tear a hole through Castiel's eardrums and his throat burns from merely hearing them. Words of ancient power. Words never meant to be used except in the direst of times.

He understands what they say and the implications of the spell fill him with sickly dread.

The ball of Grace scatters into a thousand million tiny spheres of light which shoot up and away, out into the cloudy sky like bright snowflakes rising on a sudden updraft.

Then everything goes silent bar the faint whistle of wind. Castiel realizes he can move his lips again.

"H-how... How is this possible? How could you do this?"

"The stars are aligned, and the date is right. One day out of ten thousand years... But this was always meant to happen, Castiel. If it weren't me, it would be another. Take comfort in that."

Lucifer almost appears sad.

"We'll send you back." Sam explains. "To the camp Dean is leading. You can continue fighting, just as a human now. Or you can just enjoy yourself. Do whatever you like, Castiel. No more orders to follow. We'll even... give you a chance."

He hands Gabriel's blade back to Lucifer, and the glow of the metal intensifies as magic is poured into it, melting and reshaping the form into... two objects. One still a sword, but the other - tiny - in the shape of a bullet.

"A sporting chance, but a chance none the less." Lucifer presses the bullet into Castiel's palm and his fingers involuntarily clench around it. "The only metal that can kill an archangel is metal from the blade of one. One bullet, and I believe the Colt itself is lost. Without your power, you may have trouble finding it. But if you do..."

One shot. One literal shot; one last chance to defeat the Devil. Castiel understands, even if he doesn't understand why.

"It's for Dean." Sam finally meets his gaze. "Because if he didn't have at least some hope, he wouldn't live anymore. Tell him I'm long gone, Castiel. Tell him I said yes. And good luck."

The last thing Castiel sees before the world shifts is Lucifer touching his forehead with two fingers and Sam's mouth opening, as if to ask a question.

* * *

 

He hits the dirt in a sprawl of indignity, Dean only three paces away, dust in his eyes and nose with chills still running up and down his skin. Castiel moans gently, and the sound turns the hunter's gaze.

"Cas?!" Then Dean is by his side, rolling him over and helping him to a sitting position, hands burning white hot over his skin after the freezing air of Detroit. "What the- did you manage to-"

"No. Lucifer has..." Castiel cannot phrase it. He cannot describe with justice to a human the awful monstrosity that has just occurred. He doesn't try, and instead focuses on the one atrocity Dean will understand. "Sam..." But no, he hasn't the heart to say it.

"Start at the beginning. Where were you? Antarctica?" So Dean has noticed the cold.

"Detroit." Castiel holds out a hand and lets the one bullet roll off it, for Dean to catch. He does.

"And Sam said yes?"

Castiel nods miserably.

"How?"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore." There's a dull ache in his stomach and a ringing in his ears. In the back of his mind, thousands of voices scream in terror and pain as devastation and loss sweeps the ranks. Before, Earth was a battleground in the war but now... now the war has been won by the enemy.

 Not far away, Chuck is running towards them and yelling something about his visions of everything having stopped. He's no longer a prophet.

It's over.

"Cas, speak to me. I _need_ to know what happened." Dean shakes Castiel's shoulders. He does not respond. He's too busy looking up at the gaps between the trees, so Dean looks up too.

It's the middle of the afternoon, and the sun is shining bright, but thousands of stars are dotting the sky.

* * *

 

"What happens now?" Sam asks Lucifer, as Castiel disappears in a flash of light and they are once again standing alone.

"Whatever you want, Sam."

"Then I want to go home."

In a beat of feathered wings they are back in the only place Sam could call his own, even though the bed is hardly slept in and the kitchen hardly used. His body has strengthened not to need such things.

He runs up the spiral stairs until he can see the darkened sky of nighttime stretching out and all around him through the glass. A bubble protecting him and safeguarding him from the outside world.

High, high above bright lights are beginning to shine. Tens upon hundreds upon thousands, too many to count, in all directions the eyes can see. They streak down like meteors in a haze of shining Grace and burning feathers.

The angels are falling.

Sam is crying.

Lucifer brushes the tears away from his face.

"Don't be sad. This had to happen. You know it has to be this way."

This is checkmate. This is their victory move. Michael has been ripped from his place atop the board; weakened from the fall and without a vessel to cushion him he cannot stand up to Lucifer's might. All the others will fall into line once the one they follow is gone, needing a leader like a wayward flock of sheep. Lucifer will ascend to his past title as best and brightest, the commander of angels, and the Earth will restore to its former glory once humanity is purged from it.

"I know. But... I can't. I can't do this any more." Sam sits down and watches the shower of shooting stars, and if he wasn't already crying their beauty would bring him to tears. "I want to say yes."

"If you don't mind my asking, what made you change your mind?"

"I don't know. I lost hope, I guess. But I still have one condition."

Lucifer gently closes his arms around Sam and lets tears soak into his shoulder. "Of course. Anything you want. I'll keep Dean safe for you, or bring back your family, or even reinstate Castiel."

"No." Sam's voice is muffled in Lucifer's clothing, and Lucifer idly strokes his hair. His hands are peeling and decaying, but soon that will not matter. Sam's body will contain him in a way no other vessel could. "No, I don't want any of that. I'm too selfish, and I hate myself for it, but that's not what I want at all. Plus I think Dean might kill me if I made him immortal while giving in to you."

"Then you wish for a material good? You need only ask and you will receive, Sam."

"No. You got it wrong again."

"Then tell me."

Sam shifts out of the embrace and all around meteors streak through the sky. "I want to die."

"Oh." Whatever Lucifer had been expecting, it wasn't that, so Sam clarifies:

"I've seen what you do to the people you punish, how you unpick their souls so they're wiped from existence. I want that. No battles for control, no burning in Hell, no living forever in Heaven. Not even being a part of you for the rest of eternity. I want oblivion."

Lucifer's face shifts into a slight frown. "Why?"

"You _know_ why." Sam stares down at his hands. "Because I can't do this anymore. I can't resist, not now there's no hope left for my side winning."

"Then don't. Give up everything. I'll always be here with you - there is forever ahead of you to become whatever you wish to be."

"And that's the problem! I have a pretty good idea of what I'll become if you've got eternity on your side. It took me four years to break; another forty and I'll barely remember anything of what was before." For the first time, Sam stretches out his own hand to touch Lucifer's face and _pushes_. He transmits, reversing the direction of their link as it solidifies into a two way bond, consent having been achieved.

He shows imagined memories of lazy days and lazy nights, alone but never lonely, not with the bright being sharing his mind and soul and heart. They are one and the same, and the glistening sea stretches out before them with seemingly no end to its borders, great swooping wings of Grace hovering at their back, darting and dashing over the waves in an endless dance.

Lucifer is shocked a first but then responds, wrapping affirmation in agreement and adding memories of his own, of stars and space and bright blue marbles and planes of reality no mortal can see but they _could_ , two immortals flowing effortlessly through time with no cares besides themselves...

It becomes an endless feedback loop, daydream on daydream on daydream, reflected in the mirror of each other's minds, building and building with new scenes flashing behind Sam's eyes to mix with memories of the last four years. He can't tell what is real and what is not yet real, can't tell what originated from Lucifer's mind and what originated from his own, as their thoughts mix and begin to pulse in symphony. Closer than friends, closer than family, closer even than lovers - they are _each other_ and the glass hazes up with light as more angels fall from the sky-

And Sam yanks back, snapping the connection and feeling pain shoot through his spine, collapsing back onto the hard cold floor and whimpering in distress at the loss of contact. "No!"

"Why not? You've consented. It works both ways now. It's the logical next step to take, Sam."

"No..." Sam's skin feels charged with electricity, every hair standing on end, heart rate skyrocketing with the pure exhilaration that courses through his veins. It's been years since they used the mind link, since Lucifer was happy for physical proximity to replace mental and Sam never complained lest he lose his only refuge of devil-free thoughts. He has forgotten the side-effects of even the shortest exposure to each other. "That's not what you agreed to."

"I agreed to nothing, Sam, while by your consent you've agreed to everything. By all rights I could take what is mine now, your will be damned."

Sam laughs. "You won't."

"What makes you think that's true? It wouldn't matter one bit once we're joined."

"Because you respect my choices too much, Lucifer. We both know that if you were prepared to use power to force me into submission, I would have been yours from the very first time we met."

"You've always been mine, Sam."

"You know what I mean." Sam lets out a trembling breath and waits for his muscles to stop shaking and return to something approaching a wayward normal. It's still a spectacular light show up above. Heaven to Earth is a long way to fall.

He rolls over and up, climbing shakily back to his feet and heading for the stairs back down. He can't watch this anymore. One glance behind him at the now empty room tells him Lucifer is waiting below.

"I've thought about it," The Devil casually remarks to Sam as he steps off the bottom step, "And I'm prepared to grant your request. I said anything, and that's what I mean. If you want to die, so be it."

"Are we talking real death here? No out clauses, no... no crossroads deals, no angelic resurrections." Lucifer nods.

"I can tease apart the threads of your soul and weave them into the patchwork of reality. It's not quite nonexistence, but it's the closest possible to have since only my Father can destroy a soul. You would become a part of everything else, so to speak."

"Like reincarnation? No, I don't just want a memory wipe, I-"

"Not that. Further. You would exist, parts of you, in every living and non-living being - every grain of stardust or atom or pocket of space. What remains would be quite unlike anything resembling a human mind, let alone Sam Winchester."

"And it's not reversible? You couldn't stitch me back together again?"

"Not unless I tracked down every single thread of soul from every single corner of this universe and brought them back together. I could not accomplish that feat in a trillion years, not even in the eternity of time left after now."

"Good. Then that's what I want."

"Why, though? I still don't fully understand."

"And that's the problem with you. You're so... so naive, Lucifer." An eyebrow raises at that, which is expected. "You're the Devil. The enemy, the adversary. Villain of the tale. Set to wipe out humanity, my own race. Morally, I have no way to justify this as a human being."

"Surely you won't constrain yourself to the ethical limits of one culture of one species of one particularly intelligent genus of ape? Particularly when your moral code is walked over by those who do as they see fit."

"I know. I'm thinking like that more and more every day now, and it scares me. A year or two more and I won't care about humanity any more than you do. So I want an out while I'm still something resembling me. I don't want to see myself end the world and believe I'm doing the right thing."

"Then I do understand, though I don't accept your line of thought. Are you truly sure you desire this cause of action? Like I said, it's not reversible."

"...No, I'm not sure." Sam is terrified, that's what he is.

"Then I won't do it."

"You said you would, though."

"Not if you're pressured into it by the ridiculous social codes of your past. I care about your free choice, and I count this as coercion."

"And what wouldn't you count as coercion? Doing exactly what you want? You've got your definitions backwards."

"I believe we should compromise." Lucifer leans on the rail and inspects his hands. They're more decayed than before, the decline accelerating from the effect of the spell and as the body senses its end time nearing. His irises now glow faintly blue with Grace unable to be contained. "I'll put you to sleep. You won't be aware of anything, but I'll keep your soul entwined with my own. Safe. To you, time will not pass, so your mind will not alter. You'll be yourself when I wake you up countless eons in the future."

"And then-?"

"You decide. Free from the expectations of this decaying world, once humanity itself is long gone and I've cleaned up the unholy mess you all left. Distance should clarify your thoughts. If you still want to die, then I'll keep my word and scatter you to the winds. If you change your mind..."

Remembrances of the mind link flash through Sam's head, and his heart aches. He shoves the feeling firmly away.

"Alright. Seems fair."

Sam pushes by Lucifer to head into the bedroom and starts rummaging through the wardrobe.

"What are-"

"I'm wearing jeans and a t-shirt at the moment. If we do this, I may as well look the part." He pulls out the white suit from the very back, never before used though like everything else here it will fit him perfectly, and starts to change. Lucifer doesn't leave - by this stage, they're far past the point of embarrassment at showing skin. "Do you have a rose?"

"A... rose?" The note of incredulity shows that he has for probably the final time thrown Lucifer off.

"Yeah, like in Sleeping Beauty, when she goes to sleep for a hundred yea- you know what, forget I said anything." Sam checks everything for creases and, finding none, folds his arms. He'll make some. "While I'm out, make sure you download all my memories so when I'm up you can get all the references. Even if they'll be horribly out of date."

"I'll do that. I'll enjoy having access to them at last."

Sam doesn't reply, though he could comment on the slight creepiness of it, but Lucifer has said and done worse things and that’s just how the Devil talks. He goes back out into the corridor. "So where are we doing this? This intersection's a bit like a crossroads, I guess."

"I don't require a crossroads. Here." Lucifer teleports them fifteen feet down the hall because he apparently cannot be bothered to walk, to the drab room with the grey sofa so reminiscent of their mindscape. "Sit."

Sam sits, and the archangel pulls him into his arms. Shimmering energy stretches out around him to cocoon his body in invisible blue wings. Lucifer touches their foreheads together and the link springs open, thrumming thoughts bouncing between the two of them. Sam's breath hitches as his hackles start to rise, and awareness of physical sensations then begins to swim into both holder and held. Light brighter than lighting builds to engulf them both, as Nick's heart gives out under the strain of so much awakened Grace.

They're no longer talking in words, letting raw feelings of energy shoot from one to the other, intensifying with each round. Sam is not Sam, and Lucifer is not Lucifer - they are one being, for just one tiny instant that lasts seemingly forever.

Sam cannot feel his body anymore. He sees and hears but does not touch, taste or smell, and even those last two senses are fading sharply. One of the last things he is aware of is Lucifer, singing without words or sound, a lullaby meant to soothe the troubled soul. He relaxes.

Everything fades to white.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated, since they help me improve my writing and encourage me to write more. If you've got time I'd love for you to leave one.


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